


Sweet to tongue and sound to eye

by Veto_power_over_clocks



Category: The Gentlemen (2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 74,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veto_power_over_clocks/pseuds/Veto_power_over_clocks
Summary: It starts with dinner.(Not true; it started the moment you became aware of each other's existence. You simply want to believe otherwise.)
Relationships: Coach/Raymond Smith, one-sided Raymond Smith/Mickey Pearson
Comments: 102
Kudos: 291





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voices_in_my_head](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_in_my_head/gifts).



> I saw this movie a bit over two weeks ago with Sofia (who I blame for putting the "Fletcher and Ray are exes" thought in my mind), and at some point while watching the movie we concluded that Fletcher really wanted to be topped by Ray, who wanted to be topped by Mickey, who had definitely been pegged by Ros. That's 10% of why this fic exists. The other 90% is that near the end of the movie I said "If Coach and Ray survive, they should get together".
> 
> I spent three days throwing ideas back and forth with Sofia and saying I wouldn't write anything, and proceeded to give up on the fourth day when a scene pretty much pulled my hair and demanded to be written.
> 
> So! After ¿five? years of friendship, I'm finally gifting you a fic, Sofia. Congrats on getting me to write something that isn't alien robots that turn into cars.

When you find out what the boys' plan to 'fix' your Mickey Pearson problem had been, you want to laugh, slightly hysterical and terrified, because they might have just painted a big target on themselves that no amount of favors will be able to erase. After you push down your first reaction and your strong desire to yell, you move on to practical things, like if they were seen, if anyone got away, and how they disposed of the weapons. When you conclude that all of you are thoroughly fucked, you give them the day off and tell them to stay in the gym, because you don't trust them not to go and try to find Pearson again to finish the job, or to try something even more stupid, like allying themselves with whoever it was that sent those men after Smith. You can only hope that saving Smith's life has won you enough goodwill to earn you a lifetime of service to the Pearsons instead of a trip to the morgue.

It's not a surprise when Raymond Smith shows up at the gym. It's not a surprise that your boys look ready to fight him. It's not a surprise that he comes with two thugs that probably wouldn't be able to take your lads in a fight, but who don't need to worry about that because they're carrying the sort of gun you haven't seen since you started over with your life.

"Can we speak in private?" Smith says, looking at the boys with amusement glinting in his eyes. To him, they must be nothing but a group of kids playing gangster, and you guess that makes you the troubled father that has to deal with the fire they accidentally started. "I promise that no one will get hurt," he adds when he notices you studying the thugs.

You believe him, because he hasn't given you any reason not to do so so far, so you take him to the office and tell your boys not to try anything, for the love of everything they hold dear.

Smith looks around the office with mild curiosity, turning his back on you because he knows you’re not an idiot, that you’re only alive because he wants it that way, that he could have killed you when you first met him and that he could kill you now with no problem or repercussions.

He inspects the pictures on the walls, the newspaper clippings and the trinkets on the shelf, and you wait by the door with your arms crossed in front of your chest, following him with your eyes. If he wants you to squirm, he'll have to try harder.

Smith pushes back his coat and takes out his gun, setting it on the desk, and turns towards you.

You're not impressed by the 'gun on the table' move. A gun is just a paperweight until somebody actually uses it, and even then it all depends on how well it's used.

"I think you know why I'm here," he says, sitting on your desk.

"I'd prefer if you said it," you tell him, calm and disinterested. You're not prey until he decides that you are, and all he's done so far is display power. That doesn't impress you. It can't impress you; if it does, you lose.

He smiles slightly, clearly just as amused by you as he is by the boys, and says, "Your lads tried to kill my boss. Any idea why they decided to do that?"

You breathe in deeply and exhale heavily.

"They thought it was the only way to end my debt to him." Because you’re theirs as much as they’re yours, because they’re loyal and still believe that everything can be solved by making the right move, but they’ve yet to realize there are bigger things than them out there and for that they’re so, so fucked.

"Luckily for them, he survived." That means they're not dead. Maybe they'll only kill _you_ to set an example. "Even better for them, they ended up saving his life." He tilts his head back slightly, enough to look down at you. You stay as you are, arms crossed and expression blank. "Those two men they gunned down? They were friends with the Russians you killed at my place." You start to think that maybe, just maybe, all of you will survive the day.

“Sounds like your boss was very lucky as well,” you point out, just in case it hasn’t occurred to them.

“He was. He’s not happy about the attempted murder, but he’s happy about how things turned out.” Smith’s eyes are on yours, and you hold his gaze and wait to see what all the foreplay’s for. “And you saved my life. I’m happy about that too.”

You almost smile at the understatement, the corner of your mouth twitching, but whatever this is, you know you’re not free yet.

“Does your boss have a message for me or did he send you to do a recap of the events?” You don’t bother trying to sound nonchalant, but you remain calm. For some reason, they don’t want you dead yet.

“We would like it if your boys stayed out of our way from now on. They might not be so lucky the next time.” You can’t feel anything but resignation at the implied threat. If you mess with the wrong people, you have to accept the possible consequences.

“I’ll talk to them. I think they didn’t believe me when I told them we wouldn’t have to do you any more favors.”

Smith nods and stands up.

“As for you, my boss and his wife want you to join them for dinner tonight.” He picks up his gun and puts it back in its holster, finally looking away from you.

“Dinner,” you say flatly.

He looks at you with no more emotion than what someone would normally show while discussing the weather.

“Dinner,” he repeats simply. “They say they hope you like fish.”

“Is someone going to come here to kill my boys while I’m gone?” Or maybe the fish thing is a way to say they'll have you sleeping with the fishes soon. Do gangsters still say that? Did they ever really say it?

“Nobody’s going to hurt your lads, _Coach_ ,” he says, his voice curling around the word like a snake around a rabbit. He knows exactly how much you care about them and you _would_ fight this man if that could give your boys a chance, but you know it’d be useless. He’s still displaying power, and you can’t let it get to you.

"What happens if I reject the invitation?"

"Nothing at all." Smith shrugs. "You miss on some good food."

He's been honest so far. You don't want to risk this being a lie.

You take a deep breath and uncross your arms.

"How long until dinner?" You might as well see what happens.

"Forty minutes." He walks towards you and looks you up and down. Something in the way he stops at your neck and hands makes you think there's something besides professional interest in his scrutiny. "They sent me to pick you up."

You look down at yourself. You'll be having dinner with Mickey Pearson and his wife in gym clothes.

"Lead the way, Mr. Smith," you say, gesturing at the door.

You find the boys caught in a staring contest with the thugs. They aren't happy to hear about your dinner plans.

"It'll be fine," you tell them, even though you're not sure, because even implying otherwise is bound to make them try to fix things in their own way.

"Come on, Coach, you can't go with them," Ernie says, and he and the others look pleading and worried.

You gesture for Smith to give you a few minutes and sum up the recent conversation you had with him for the boys, leaving out details like the gun and the implied threat in Smith's tone. Despite your careful editing, they don't look convinced.

"You're going to be alright as long as you don't insist on trying to fix a problem that doesn't exist anymore," you say, looking at them intently and hoping they believe it.

"But what about you, Coach?" Primetime says, shooting Smith an accusing look.

"You have my word that he'll return alive and unharmed," Smith says, looking at your boys in the eye one by one. "He'll have dinner and then he'll be back here."

"Four hours," Ernie says. "You have four hours to bring him back."

"Four hours," Smith agrees, as if that wasn't enough time to kill you and dispose of the body, as if there's anything your boys could do if Smith lied.

You get into the backseat with Smith and wave goodbye to your boys from the window, certain that, no matter how the evening goes, you’re doomed.

The ride is silent, the thugs clearly more interested in the road than in making friends with you, and Smith is busy texting someone, but you appreciate it. You're not in the mood for small talk, especially considering the thugs periodically check on you through the rearview mirror.

You feel out of place when you reach Pearson's home. The place reeks of money and power, everything around you a reminder that these people hold your life in their hands, that any agreement you reach tonight will only stand as long as they feel like doing so. Your chances of a positive outcome rely entirely on how much Smith values his own word.

Of course, there’s the chance Smith was being literal and that he plans to kill you on your doorstep.

The first surprise is how genuinely glad Pearson seems to be that you accepted the invitation. He shakes your hand, introduces himself (as if there was any possibility of you not knowing who he is), introduces you to his wife (who is probably a force of nature, judging by the way she stands), and asks you how the drive was.

“There’s no time for small talk,” Smith says, standing a few steps beside you. “He has a curfew.”

“He has-” Pearson starts, disbelieving, then seems to remember you're there and turns towards you. “You have a curfew?”

“My boys are worried about me being here alone,” you make a vague gesture, “so Mr. Smith has to bring me back in four hours.” You put your hands in your jacket’s pockets and ignore the quick look Pearson gives to Smith. “Lovely house, by the way.”

“That should be enough time for food and drinks,” Rosalind Pearson says, looking you up and down. Her gaze doesn’t linger on anything, not even on your running shoes. “Not enough for a good conversation.” She twists her mouth. “Do your boys have any plans in case you don’t return in time?”

You hear Smith breathe in deeply, but you keep your eyes on Rosalind Pearson. This is a test and she isn’t bothering trying to hide it. You’re certain that she could do it if she wanted to, and instead she has chosen to set her jaw and study you with hard eyes, letting you know that she’s measuring you, evaluating you, comparing you to others that have stood in front of her before. Her husband is smiling pleasantly at you, and it all feels like a good cop/bad cop routine, except everyone knows there never is a good cop, only a bastard that smiles and one that doesn’t.

It makes your skin crawl.

“They didn’t when I left them, but I don’t trust them to stay idle for four hours,” you say, and let them draw their own conclusions about how that might go and how aware you are of the potential disaster.

“I guess we must make sure you get home in time, then,” Pearson says, gesturing towards the dining room. “For what it’s worth, you’re not here alone. Ray’s your date for the night.”

Ray. Short for Raymond. That’s Smith’s first name. Mickey Pearson just joked about Raymond Smith being your date.

You turn your head enough to see Smith out of the corner of your eye and find him tensing up. In front of you, Rosalind Pearson finally smiles, private and pleased, because she’s in on the joke, whatever it was supposed to mean.

“We were hoping you would join us for dinner as well, Ray,” she says. “We haven’t met your friend before, and we thought him being alone here would leave him with the wrong idea.” From the corner of your eye, you see Smith turning his attention towards Pearson. “Now, if you please.” She leads the way towards the dining room, followed by her husband.

You turn to Smith fully and catch him watching Pearson’s back, a hint of hurt on his expression that disappears as soon as he notices you’re looking at him. It seems like you’re the only one that doesn’t get the joke. The word 'friend' stands out in your mind, and you file it away to ponder when you aren't busy navigating a potentially deadly social situation.

The dining room is ready, places set at one end of a long table, Mickey Pearson and his wife sitting across from Smith and you, and one of the thugs brings over the food, completely ruining any pretense that this dinner is anything but a warning. Despite that, the Pearsons insist on light talk. You don’t last three minutes into a discussion on whether or not anybody cares about Madonna nowadays.

“With all due respect,” you say before anyone can continue the conversation, “can you tell me why I’m here? I understand the role my boys had in the events of the last day, but Mr. Smith here has told me that they’re free to go as long as they don’t bother you, so I must assume you want something from me.” You need these people to stop playing pretend and tell you what the fuck it is.

Next to you, Smith tenses up again.

“I wanted to meet you,” Pearson says, reaching for his wine glass. He drinks slowly and doesn’t speak again until he’s set it down. “What your boys did was very, very stupid, and it could have gone very, very wrong for them. I understand they were trying to help you?” You nod. “I didn’t like what they tried to do, but I was willing to let it go because of the end result. Now…" He pauses, either to think or for dramatic effect. "I can respect their loyalty and good intentions. As Ray told you, if you ensure they never get in my way again, I won’t have any reason to touch any of you.” He gestures at Smith. “More important than that, however, is that you saved Ray’s life.” He grabs the knife and cuts a piece of fish on his plate. “I could use someone like you, but Ray tells me you’d rather stay away from my business. I can respect those wishes as well.” He brings the food to his mouth and starts chewing.

“We wanted to know to whom we owed Ray’s survival,” Rosalind Pearson says, finally smiling at you. It still sets off alarms in your brain, something about it reminding you of being sixteen years old and having dinner at some girl’s house, knowing that her parents were testing you. “And we wanted to thank you.”

You lower your head slightly as a show of respect and express your gratitude to them for sparing your boys.

Next to you, Smith remains tense and he stays like that even after you’ve concluded that the Pearsons really mean you no harm and finally start to relax. You don’t doubt that they’ll kill you if you give them a reason for it, but at least tonight you’re safe, and so the second surprise of the night is that by the time you move to the living room for a drink, you're almost enjoying yourself. You can't say the same for Smith, who you keep an eye on throughout the evening as you try to figure out what it is that these three know and you don't.

The third surprise of the night is when, instead of figuring out the joke, you put together what it means that you often catch Smith looking at Pearson, that he stands to refill drinks just when Pearson is about to finish his own, that he averts his eyes when Rosalind Pearson distractedly takes her husband's hand during the conversation and when Pearson brushes her hair out of her face later. The first two things you initially attributed to the sort of obsessive loyalty you've learned to expect from gangsters, but the last thing? You wonder if he's always so careless or if you're only noticing because you're paying attention to him. You wonder if his bosses know.

What you also notice is that Smith sticks to water after the main course and that he periodically checks his watch.

"I'm sorry to interrupt the conversation," he says, standing up right after you finish your third or fourth drink of the night, "but if we don't leave now we might end up having a situation."

You've kept track of time as well, and you're thankful to him for not having you ask to be taken home. If you leave now, you should arrive with ten minutes to spare, maybe more if traffic is good. You're thankful for that as well.

"Can you drive him home, Ray? I don't think you need Bunny and Dave for this," Pearson says, and Smith looks at him for two seconds with a slightly raised eyebrow before agreeing.

"Thank you for joining us. I hope we can see you again," Rosalind Pearson tells you, and if you didn't know better you'd think she means it.

"Thanks for the invitation," you say, and don't add how you really hope you never interact again.

As you leave the room with Smith, you hear Pearson quietly say, "He could do worse."

His wife lets out a short sound of amusement and replies, "He's already done worse."

Smith shuts the door and leads you away. He's walking slightly faster than usual.

You're led to Smith's car and watch him as he starts it, lips pressed tightly and gaze lost, like he's thinking about something. Both of you are silent until you reach the street, when you say, "Just to be sure, you're not about to kill me, right?"

You watch his profile and catch the slight upwards curve of his mouth that announces that the answer you'll get is good for you.

"No, you're not getting killed by me or any member of my boss' business." He pauses and adds, "Nobody should kill you, as far as I know."

"Good. It was a nice dinner, it'd be a shame if you'd simply been preparing me for slaughter."

He actually smiles at that, but grows serious when he turns to give you a quick look.

"You understand that what was said today is true, don't you? If they fuck up again, you die."

Your good humor evaporates and you're once again very, very tired. You appreciate that he thinks you won't be the one to mess up.

You lean back in the seat and watch the road ahead.

“You mean _I_ will get killed, or me and the boys?” Your voice betrays your exhaustion as well.

"Both end with you dead," he says, sounding slightly admonishing.

So your boys might make it. You can live with that. What you don't understand is why Smith can't as well.

"I didn't know you cared, _Ray_ ," you say, irony hiding your bemusement.

"You saved my life." He licks his lips and turns his head to look at you just long enough to say, “I don’t want you to die.”

You turn those words in your mind. Raymond Smith wants you to stay alive.

"Did you have anything to do with how things went?" you ask, because Rosalind Pearson had called Smith your friend and this looks like a good moment to think about that.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "When we were talking about everything that happened, I asked them to leave you and your boys alone. We were all alive and record shows we're better off not dealing with all of you for too long."

You snort. He's got a point.

"Do I owe you anything now?"

His mouth twists in distaste.

"You saved my life, remember? I think we're even." He gives you a quick look and adds, "You'll never have to see me again."

You turn your head to watch him. You study the angle of his nose, the curve of his ear and the line of his neck and you think that seeing him was never a problem, it was all the things that were associated with it.

Not seeing him again is alright with you, though. You don't want to owe him any more favors.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he says, breaking you out of your thoughts. "If I'd known what they were planning, I'd have put a stop to it."

Ah. It looks like he'll explain the joke to you.

"I still don't understand what all of that was about," you admit. "First you show up with some thugs, then the Pearsons treat me nicely."

"Sorry about the," his mouth twitches with contained laughter, "thugs. He made it sound like it wasn’t going to be a friendly dinner, so we put together the unfriendly welcome committee."

"I'm feeling magnanimous. You're forgiven," you say, mock solemn.

"That's so kind of you," Smith replies, laughter in his voice.

It might be the three or four drinks you had, or the relief that it's only Smith and you in the car, but you feel fine right now, and bold enough to insist, "What was all of that tonight?"

He eyes you questioningly.

"You really don't know?"

"I have no fucking idea what was going on. I only know your boss' wife must be one mean lady."

His face tells you that you are right in thinking that.

Slowly, throwing quick looks at you every few words, he says, "They seem to have mistaken my gratitude towards you for interest."

_Huh._

"Huh." You narrow your eyes a bit and, to be sure, add, "When you say 'interest', you mean like…" You make a vague gesture. You consider a crude one, but it might not be the moment for it.

"Sexual, romantic, non-platonic, 'take you out for dinner and then go down on you' type of interest, yes."

So much for keeping it tasteful. You carefully refrain from picturing what he said; you can return to it later. Or in the morning. Or in the shower.

You're sure all your disbelief and confusion shows on your face. Everything makes an uncomfortable amount of sense now.

"Let me see if I understand this." You point at Smith, who is doing his best to pay attention to you without ignoring the road. "Your bosses invited me for dinner to… give me their blessing?" Saying it out loud only makes it more absurd.

Smith makes a face.

"I think it was more about setting us up, but yes. That too."

There's so much you want to know now, and not enough time before you get home.

"Why do you need their blessing to date someone?"

He frowns and gives you a disbelieving look.

"That's what you're curious about?"

"What else should I be asking about?" Your face is still a picture of confusion.

He sets his jaw and you see his eyes move to give you a quick look before he says, "I was expecting you to ask about them setting me up with a man."

You raise your eyebrows. "Do you want me to say something about that?"

He doesn't reply, only tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

You turn to look ahead again.

"I've gone out with some girls," you say slowly. "I've gone out with some men." Smith's knuckles relax. "I don't have anything else to say."

He nods once.

"I…" He drums on the steering wheel. "You seem like a nice man, but I'm not interested in a relationship right now."

You can't help the snort that you let out. It's been a while since somebody called you 'nice'. Smith gives you an annoyed look.

"You don't need to be so careful, _Ray_." You smirk at his unimpressed face and think over what you're going to say next. How much should you reveal? How much would Smith be alright with you acknowledging? "I didn't know what was happening until now, and even if I had known…" You keep facing forward, doing your best to give him some privacy as you say, "I could tell who you're interested in."

Smith breathes in deeply. There's nothing to be said that won't make the situation more uncomfortable, so you stay silent.

"I'm working on it," he says after a minute.

"Does he know?" You still aren't looking at him.

He laughs. It's small and humorless; it makes you pity him.

"It's probably why he tried to set us up."

"Ah." That's downright cruel.

"I'm really sorry about all this." He looks at you to say, "Again, nothing against you. I'm simply… not the right person for a relationship right now." He turns towards the road again.

"Thank you for making that clear." Trying for humor, you add, "So you don't actually need their blessing to date someone?"

This time, his laughter is genuine.

"My last boyfriend was Fletcher, so I think they'd like to have a say on the next one."

Fletcher. What was he, a journalist? No, that was Pig Guy. Fletcher was the P.I. Seemed like a real cunt when you met him. You have to wonder if the reason he didn't seem to like you had anything to do with his 'ex-boyfriend' status.

"I can understand wanting Pearson, but Fletcher?" you say, judging. You're judging him. You need him to know that you're judging him.

"It wasn't serious." He says it just a tad too quickly for you to believe it.

"It doesn't sound like it was casual," you say lightly, hoping he understands you mean nothing by it.

"He _was_ my boyfriend, no matter what a bad idea the relationship was." He winces. "Maybe I should have tried for something casual."

"I'm surprised, Mr. Smith," your tone making it clear that you're joking. "I didn't take you for the fuckbuddy type."

"You thought about that?" He smirks, pleased.

"A passing thought." You shrug, giving him a flirty smile. "You are very attractive." The beard could go, though.

"Thank you.” He matches your expression. “You're not bad either."

The car turns down the corner of your street. You see a group of people in front of the gym that you know is the boys from the way they stand, and you pray they’re simply waiting for you, not getting ready to raid Pearson's mansion or do something equally ill-advised.

Smith stops in front of the gym. Nobody seems to be holding any weapons.

You get out of the car and, impulsively, lean down before closing the door to say, "Goodbye, Ray."

"Goodbye." He's smiling at you, small and comfortable. "I won't see you around."

He seems to think that was funny. You raise an eyebrow and close the door.

You don't get to watch him drive away because your boys surround you immediately, asking what happened, if you're alright, if they tortured you or something equally heinous. They have so many questions that they don’t let you speak, and you have to raise your voice to get them to stop fussing. Now that you know none of you is getting killed, you have many, many things to tell them about their idea of killing Mickey Pearson, so you get them inside the gym and, after letting them know that Smith kept his promise and you are physically and mentally unharmed, you let them know exactly what you think, loud and clear.

You want to believe they understood that they must stay away from drug lords.

* * *

“So, if Pearson wasn’t planning to torture you...” Ernie starts, two days after the dinner with Pearson, when he and the others have already gotten over their shame from everything that happened. He watches you cautiously, so you gesture for him to continue. “Why ask you to go to dinner?”

Around the gym, the boys keep to their routines, but you notice some of them moving more slowly, clearly trying to listen to your answer.

They outright stop moving when you say, “He wanted to set me up with his right-hand man.” You can’t blame them for that, it _was_ surprising.

What’s also surprising is that, after they’ve all looked at each other, Benny asks, “When’s the date?”

You blink and stare.

“The what?” you ask flatly.

“When are you going out with him?” Benny says, moving his hands like that will help make the idea any less absurd.

“Why would I be going out with him?” You furrow your brow, narrow your eyes and keep staring.

“Why not?” Benny frowns.

“Remember how we talked about Mickey Pearson being bad news?” You look around at your boys, who simply look back at you. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, I want to know if you remember.” After all of them have nodded, you continue. “Mickey Pearson is bad news. Raymond Smith is his right-hand man. That means he’s the same amount of bad news, except he can’t act unless his boss allows it.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem unless you break his heart, right?” Primetime says.

You close your eyes, press your lips tightly, and take a deep breath before looking at him.

“We didn’t just go through all this trouble to get out of the gangster business to walk right back into it,” you point out. Nobody seems convinced.

“You wouldn’t be in the business, just dating a gangster.” Primetime shrugs with one shoulder. “It sounds okay to me, Coach.”

The boys nod.

“We’d take care of it if he hurt you,” Ernie adds, which makes the boys nod more enthusiastically.

“That’s the exact sort of thing I don’t want you to ever do with whoever I end up dating,” you warn.

“But that’s kinda the thing, Coach,” Benny says, slow and tentative. “We’ve never seen you with anyone. And it’d be cool if you didn’t like that, but we know you do, and… why not?”

“What we wanna say, Coach, is that we think it’d be good if you had someone,” Ernie says, gesturing at the others. “We talk sometimes, and we want you to be happy.”

Part of you is touched. The rest of you is wondering what impression you give that they think you should go and date a gangster.

“I’m not going out with Mr. Right-Hand Man Of A Drug Lord,” you say, your voice final, and send everyone back to what they were doing.

“Think about it, Coach,” Benny says. “Why not?”

Because he’s bad news, and because he already wants someone else. Because you killed two men for him and you still don’t know why you did it.

You ignore the question, but you can't ignore that Raymond Smith has been in your mind for the last two days, an annoying thought that likes to pop up at the most random times.

Except for when you think about him on purpose, when you get into the shower and return to the mental picture his words created and you touch yourself to the image of him on his knees, smiling at you, self-assured and eager, his hands on your thighs and his eyes on yours before putting his mouth on your cock.

It annoys you. You don’t like walking down the street and remembering his hands tightening around the steering wheel, you don’t like turning on the TV and remembering Pearson calling him your date, you don’t like looking at your boys and knowing that part of the reason they’re safe is that he asked for it, that you weren’t enough to protect them. You think about him checking you out and you won’t deny you looked at him too, and you return to the idea of burying a hand in his hair as he gets you off.

Or it could be the other way around.

You could hold him against you, whisper the filthiest promises into his ear as you wrap a hand around his cock and jerk him off, watch him as he loses his composure, have his hands tightening around your shoulders as you get him closer to the edge, have him moaning against your neck as he comes. You’ve seen him disgusted, you’ve seen him angry and you’ve seen him afraid, and now you want to know what it’s like to see him come undone. You want to leave him speechless.

Now that’s a nice thought. It might even be a realistic thought – he _had_ looked at you. Sex doesn’t make a relationship and he mentioned the possibility of looking for something casual.

You start thinking about that instead.

* * *

On the list of the worst ideas that anyone has had in the last week, this one earns second place only because “fucking with Mickey Pearson” is still worse than “wanting to fuck with Mickey Pearson’s right-hand man”, but that still doesn’t make you feel any better. On the moral scale, your idea gets a worse rating, because at least your boys can say that their reasons had been somewhat altruistic, while your reasons are entirely selfish. It doesn’t stop you from driving all the way to Smith’s house and ringing the doorbell, telling yourself that maybe he won’t be home, which would be a sign that you need to go back to your place, take a cold shower, and never think about this again.

The door opens. That might be a sign that the universe hates you.

Smith doesn’t hide his surprise at seeing you. He blinks, narrows his eyes, looks behind you as he greets you and then asks, “No offense, but what are you doing here?”

You breathe in deeply and exhale through your teeth before saying, “I’m here to propose you something. Are you alone?”

His expression only becomes more puzzled, but he nods and lets you in, making you leave your shoes by the door.

“I was having dinner,” he explains as he guides you to the kitchen, where a plate of half-eaten lasagna waits on the counter next to a glass of wine. There isn’t a seat nearby. “Give me a moment to put this away and then we’ll talk.” He opens the microwave to put the plate inside, but he pauses halfway through the action to look at you and ask, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Do you want some?” he says, already setting down his plate and going towards the oven. He takes out the lasagna casserole, and you have to admit that it looks good enough to make you hungry.

It’s only lasagna, not an expensive steak. You can accept it. Still, there’s a corner of your mind, the part of it that remembers the stories that thrilled you and scared you as a child, that brings up images of fae folk, and how you must never accept what they offer.

“Sure,” you say.

The man setting a portion of lasagna on a plate for you is very, very human; if anything tonight leads to disaster, it’ll be what you’re here for, not the act of accepting some homemade food. Besides, if you reject it you’ll have to get dinner for yourself and eat alone when you get home.

Smith sets the table at the dining room while your portion heats up, leaving you waiting in his kitchen to watch him come and go with cutlery, a glass for you and his own food.

He sets the places at opposite ends of the table and you waste no time digging into your plate, because it smells _good_ and you think the chances he’ll kick you out after he hears what you have to say are high, so you should eat as much as you can before that happens.

You know he’s watching you, probably trying to figure out what you’re doing there, but you pretend not to notice.

“I thought I’d never see you again. Did something happen?” he asks, his voice full of meaning, with a hint of dread.

You smile at him. “My boys have been well behaved, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He almost relaxes. “Then what is it?”

Your smile widens. “I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had in the car the other day.” He presses his lips into a thin line. “How long ago did things with Fletcher end?”

He studies you before answering, slow and toneless, “Seven months.”

You nod.

“And you haven’t dated anyone since then.” He doesn’t say anything to that, only keeps his eyes on you and gives nothing away. You can’t blame him. “I’ve been thinking… Like I said, you’re attractive. Like you said, I’m not bad myself. I’m definitely fine enough for you to have looked at me a couple times.” A flash of guilt crosses Smith’s face. “You said you don’t want a relationship and I respect that, but, well, can I be honest with you?”

You look at him and wait for his answer.

He looks mildly intrigued when he says, “Go ahead,” accompanying his words with a gesture towards you.

“I really think you could use a good fuck.” He raises his eyebrows and gives you a disbelieving look. “Tell me, Mr. Smith, when was the last time you had a companion that wasn’t your own hand?”

“Are you really asking me that?” There’s amusement in his eyes now. That’s better than the murderous intent you’d worried about.

“You don’t have to answer.” You take a drink of wine. “I’m here to offer an arrangement.” You put your hands on the table. “Neither of us is looking for a relationship and you could use a partner that doesn’t mind that you’re pining after someone else.”

He snorts and leans back in his chair to watch you.

“You came all the way here to tell me we should fuck each other?” He might sound disbelieving, but the way his eyes study you betrays his interest.

“Yes. Or you’ll fuck me, if that’s how you like it. I have no preference,” you say dismissively.

He stays silent, watching you, and you take the chance to eat some more.

“And you genuinely don’t mind that it’s someone else I want?”

It’s your turn to snort.

“First of all, don’t lie to me. You might not be interested in me in the same way you’re interested in your boss, but you’ve looked at me enough times that I know you don’t mind me.”

“That’s true,” he concedes, with a small inclination of his head that could generously be called a nod.

“Second of all, I’d mind if this was something with feelings involved, but it all boils down to you being hot and me seeing a chance for something mutually beneficial.” You drink some more. “You could even look at it as a way of not dying of sexual frustration while you’re emotionally unavailable. It can end the moment you feel ready to find an actual partner.” You down your glass and look him in the eye. “What do you think, Ray?”

You watch him as he closes his eyes, takes off his glasses and rubs his forehead with his fingers. You hold his gaze when he opens his eyes and looks at you - let him see that you’re serious, let him see that this is a real option he has, if he wants it. You get distracted when Smith licks his lips before speaking.

“It sounds like a damn good offer.” It comes out slightly resigned. You don’t like that.

“Feel free to think it over,” you say, pushing back your chair. Definitely a bad idea. You shouldn’t have come here. “There’s no hurry.”

“I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear.” He raises a hand to stop you from standing up. “What I mean is that I accept the offer.” That sounds better. His eyes are focused on you, his tone is almost playful, and the curve of his mouth is a promise.

You study him. He puts his glasses on again and returns to watching you, as if daring you to make the first move. You figure it’s only appropriate.

“Stay there, please,” you say, standing up and approaching him slowly and deliberately. This is his house and he’s the one that probably has a gun on him, but it’s not fear that makes you think you need to approach him carefully; it’s the fact that he’d sat as far away from you as possible, that he’d been eating in his kitchen while standing up, that he loves someone else.

You stand next to Smith and ask him if he can turn his chair towards you, and he looks mildly entertained as he humors you. He looks up at you and says, “Any further requests?” with a tone that tells you that you could ask for anything, but that whether or not you get it will be entirely up to him.

“Just one,” you say, leaning forward and maintaining eye contact as your hands come to rest on his knees. “Stop me if you don’t want this.”

He looks taken aback for a second, then his expression softens and he brings a hand up to almost touch your face.

“Aren’t you a gentleman, _Coach_?” he teases.

“You know I have an actual name, don’t you?” You slide your hands up his thighs.

“So do I, but you call me ‘Mr. Smith’.” His tone doesn’t change. His hand cups your jaw.

“I’ve called you ‘Ray’.” Your hands reach his hips.

“Only sometimes,” Smith’s voice becomes lower and his hand trails down your neck, “and only to mess with me in some way or another.” So he noticed. Not that you were very subtle.

“Very well, Ray.” Your tone doesn’t put any weight on his name, doesn’t attach any emotion to it, treats it like it’s just another word among the millions that exist even though you want to tease him and laugh at him a bit, just because you can. Your hands stay where they are. “I teach my boys to respect boundaries and ask for consent, and I try to do as I preach.” You rest a finger on the front of his trousers. “If you don’t want this, stop me.”

“Go ahead.” He drops his hand and watches as you loosen his belt, unbutton and unzip his trousers, and get out his cock. You watch him breathe in sharply when you curl your fingers around it, and you almost laugh when you realize that the last person that did this might have been _Fletcher_.

Fletcher, who sold him out. Fletcher, who not only got Smith almost killed, but Mickey Pearson as well.

You take off your glasses and leave them on the table, and you catch his surprised expression as you get down on your knees, but you can’t pay attention to his face when you’re busy putting your lips around his cock and trying to take him as deep as possible. That gets him to say your name, relief and desire intertwined with the word, a sound you’re eager to hear again.

You pull back and suck on the tip to get a chance to look up. Smith’s eyes are fixed on you, his lips are slightly parted, and you know he wants more from you and that he wants you as well when his hand goes to your face, touching it so lightly that you’d think he was touching something fragile. You smile as best as you can, smug and inviting, and once again take him deep into your mouth, humming around him and enjoying the change in his breathing. It all travels straight down to your own dick, but you don’t want to miss a second of this, you want to know if he moaned more loudly when you sucked or when you licked, you want to know exactly when he started muttering words of encouragement, you want to remember what it was that you did that had him repeating your name urgently and telling you he was close, and so you ignore yourself to make Raymond Smith come undone, licking and sucking lightly until he’s leaning back in his chair, breathing heavily.

You stand up slowly, put on your glasses and take his napkin from the table to wipe your mouth. He’s looking at you appreciatively, but his gaze is still a bit unfocused.

“It looks like you needed that,” you say lightly.

“It was good,” he says breathily, closing his eyes and throwing his head back.

You have no idea what to do now. Or, well, you want to deal with how hard you are, but that's not something you can do at this moment.

“I should be going now,” you say, folding the napkin and putting it in your pocket, grateful that he must not have noticed your momentary hesitation. “Thanks for dinner, _darling_ ,” you add, and you like that that makes him laugh.

“See you soon,” he says, uprighting his head and looking at you.

Anybody who saw his face would be able to tell that he just came, and you’re so proud of yourself that you’re not really thinking when you lean down to kiss Ray’s forehead, keeping your lips against his skin as you say, “See you soon.”

Then you turn around and go home.

It’s only when you’re wanking to the memory that it truly dawns on you what you’ve just started.

* * *

Around noon, Smith texts you to ask you where you live and what time you get home, so it’s not a surprise to find his car parked outside of your building in the afternoon, and him leaning against the car’s door, smoking distractedly.

You start walking more slowly as soon as you see him, taking the chance to study his profile. The other night in his car you’d been riding high on the relief of survival and somewhat relaxed from the drinks you’d had at Pearson’s, and last night you were busier presenting your idea and looking for any signs that you should be getting out of his house. Before that, you only dealt with him in the context of the favors you owed because of your boys, and he was always fully present in the moment, worrying about Pearson and Fletcher and how to ensure things turned out well, and you were always more concerned with the matter at hand than with him. This is the first time you’ve seen Smith relaxed, and the first time you’ve been able to look at him without anything else demanding your attention.

He must notice you approaching out of the corner of his eye, because he turns his head to look at you with a small smile already in place. You like the way he looks at you, undemanding and knowing – this is a man that remembers last night just as well as you do, and who probably wouldn’t mind a repeat of the events.

You acknowledge him with a movement of your head and keep walking towards him at the same leisurely pace. He’s not going anywhere and you’re enjoying the view.

“You know those things are bad for you, right?” you tell him as you come to stand in front of him, your hands in your jacket’s pockets.

“Your boys raided a weed farm and you’re lecturing me for tobacco?” His smile widens slightly with his amusement.

“There’s no tar in weed, last I checked,” you say plainly. It’s just a fact; you’re not trying to prove anything and you’re not trying to win at anything.

“It still affects the lungs,” he shoots back, except his tone matches yours, so you can’t be sure if he’s really trying to undermine your point or simply stating a fact as well. He takes a drag of his cigarette and offers it to you. “Are you telling me you never smoked?”

You take the cigarette from him. “I didn’t even imply that.” You take a long drag and then toss it to the ground, putting it out with your shoe.

Smith watches you as you blow out the smoke, still leaning on his car and looking content. You move to stand next to him, leaning on his car as well, almost touching him. You look straight ahead.

"I didn't think I'd see you again so soon." That’s the truth. You'd expected him to wait a few days.

"I don't know if you remember, but last night you went down on me and left without giving me a chance to return the favor." He sounds reproaching. He sounds teasing. He sounds confused, you think.

"You said 'See you soon' when I told you I was leaving," you remind him.

"I wasn't thinking that coherently in that moment," he says after a pause, matter-of-factly with a tinge of satisfaction.

You turn to look at him and find he’s already watching you, both expectant and inviting.

"That good, huh?" If you sound smug, well, who can blame you?

“It had been a while.” You like the way his mouth curves, you like that he’s looking at you with open interest, you like that you can look at him in the same way and all it does is make him lean slightly towards you, just enough for his arm to touch yours. "But yes. You were that good."

“If you want, we can go in and I’ll do it again.” You gesture with your head towards your building. “It’s my place, so I won’t leave after you’ve come.”

“Maybe later.” He pushes himself away from the car and stands in front of you. “I’m here to take you out for dinner.”

His smirk tells you he knows exactly how bad that idea is, so you raise your eyebrows and ask him what he’s planning.

He hums in thought, even goes and puts on a pensive face while you give him a judging look you don’t really mean. You know what he wants and he knows you know, and you actually appreciate engaging in small talk before starting on each other.

“Our conversation last night reminded me that it’s been months since I last went somewhere with someone for reasons that weren’t business-related.” You push yourself away from the car as well and come to stand in his personal space, close enough that it can’t be ignored, but not so close that you’ll come across as a creep. “I was thinking that, well, since I already have to return last night’s favor and you have to have dinner anyway, there was no reason not to take you somewhere.”

“That sounds an awful lot like a date,” you tease.

“If you’re worried about romance, I can go down on you in the restaurant’s toilet.” Smith moves closer to you. He’s looking at your mouth, possibly remembering where you put it last night, and then he’s looking you in the eye and smiling, something in his face reminding you of him talking to Fletcher about predators and prey. It makes you want to take him to your flat and have him against the nearest surface.

Your own smile matches his. You’ve never been prey.

“Sounds scandalous, Ray. I’m all for it.” You move until your lips are close enough to his that you can almost feel them and, after a second during which you can see him debating whether or not to close the distance, you move back and sidestep him to go to your building. “I should get changed, then.”

You hear him exhale heavily and follow you.

Your flat is not nearly as impressive as his house, but Smith doesn’t let anything show on his face as you let him into it. Nothing shows on his face either when you reappear later freshly showered and dressed in the only suit you have, the one you keep for funerals and in case anybody ever decides to get married. It’s not a fancy suit, it’s a bunch of cloth that does the job of making you look presentable in situations where your own comfort isn’t a priority. You’ve never liked how it feels, stiff and a tad too big.

“Like what you see?” you ask Smith, and study his face for a reaction.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” he says, walking towards you and gesturing towards your neck. “About that...”

“I’m not going to wear a tie,” you warn.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he says, the corner of his lip twitching with humor.

“What is it then?”

He slowly moves his hands towards the collar of your shirt.

"May I?"

Ah. You left the top two buttons undone. You nod when you realize he’s waiting for permission, and then Smith unbuttons the next one.

“I didn’t expect that,” you say, touching the button he just undid.

“That looks better,” he says, dropping his hands from your shirt.

“Any more fashion advice?” you ask lightly.

“A shirt with rolled up sleeves always works.” He takes a step back to look you over. “But I don’t think a restaurant is the best place for that look.”

“I’ll keep it in mind if I ever want to seduce you.”

“I’d like that,” he says, and it sounds like he means it. “Are you ready?”

“Lead the way,” you reply, gesturing towards the door.

You follow him to his car and spend the ride watching him, studying the way his hands rest on the steering wheel and imagining them on you instead, following the line of his neck while imagining kissing a path from his clavicle to the angle of his jaw, seeing the way he smiles when he realizes that you’re still looking at him and imagining what it’d be like to bite his lip.

When he’d mentioned dinner you’d feared he’d take you to the sort of place that makes people want to start setting things on fire, where you can’t look at the decor without getting charged the amount of money that’d pay the month’s bills, but the restaurant he takes you to, while definitely fancy, seems normal. Nobody seems to mind that your suit isn’t worth much, and when you check the menu you see that, sure, you’d never go there if it was your choice, but you could afford it if you wanted to impress a date or celebrate an anniversary.

“Satisfied?” Smith says as you lower the menu, his expression telling you he knows your interest in it had nothing to do with your appetite.

“Yes. I feel less like a whore now.”

Your tone and expression should have made it clear that it was a joke, but he frowns.

“Is that what you thought this was?” He leans away from you, his shoulders tense and jaw set.

“I’m joking, Ray,” you say, looking him in the eye seriously. “I know that…” You aren't sure how to say it, so you simply voice it as it is in your mind, accompanying it with a vague gesture. “I know you’re being nice.”

He studies your face. You put your elbows on the table, which you know will probably make someone frown, interlace your fingers and return his gaze.

“Not many people call me nice,” he finally says.

“That’s because most people that deal with you do it because of business,” you say, matter-of-factly. It seems to be the right answer, because he relaxes.

“You know that I’m not trying to buy anything, right?”

You snort and shake your head.

“Ray, you could have shown up with a brand new car for me and I’d have known that anyway.”

Smith is still studying you, eyes slightly narrowed like he’s trying to find a hidden detail in a picture, his lips almost curved into a smile.

Whatever it is that he wanted to see, you think he found it, because he looks at the menu again, points a drink and one of the plates to you and whispers, “Please order that for me and meet me in the toilet.”

Then he pushes back his chair and walks away.

Huh. It looks like it’s really going to happen.

You order for both of you and leave your jacket on the chair’s back before going to find Smith. You are very, very grateful that the toilet is both clean and big enough that you won’t have to worry about hitting anything. He locks the door and guides you towards a wall.

“To be clear,” he says as he gets on his knees and starts unbuttoning your trousers, “I usually take my time, but they’ll probably notice if both of us are gone for too long.”

“You can do that some other day,” you say, and then put a hand on your mouth when he takes hold of your cock and licks it from base to tip. He looks very, very smug when he lifts his eyes, and you like that, you like that he knows what he’s doing and how it affects you, and your only regret as he touches you and sucks on you is that you will never be able to properly focus on what he looks like as he makes you come.

_Mickey Pearson has no idea what he’s missing._

You cling to that thought, to the knowledge that it’s you that gets to enjoy Ray’s lips and tongue, and hold onto it as he brings you over the edge.

You let your head drop back against the wall and stare ahead as Ray cleans his face and checks himself in the mirror.

“I’ll be at our table,” he says, heading for the door, and leaves you alone to recover and make yourself presentable. Mental recovery takes a while, because you keep thinking about what just happened, wondering how you got so lucky, and coming up with the many ways it all could go wrong, only to once again remember that _Raymond Smith_ just went down on you.

By the time you return to the table, the drinks have been brought over and Smith is checking something on his phone. He smiles pleasantly at you when you sit down and puts his phone back in his jacket.

“That took you longer than I expected,” he says, the very picture of innocence.

“You were _that_ good.” You grab your drink and sip on it.

“Thank you.” He holds his glass towards you, as if toasting. “Congratulations on that excellent idea you had about us.”

The food arrives and for a moment you’re distracted by it, but after a couple of bites you’re in the mood to talk again.

“After what just happened,” you start, and you don’t miss the way he smiles at that, “I must assume you’ve been here before. There's no other way you could have known that we wouldn't get caught."

“I've been here, but only for business.” He eats a bite of his food. “Michael sometimes brings people here.”

_Did you ever want to blow Mickey Pearson in the toilet?_

You carefully push aside that thought.

“Really? You never brought Fletcher?” You make sure to sound insinuating enough for him to raise an eyebrow.

“Very funny,” he says flatly.

“I only want to know if we just shared something special, darling,” you say, your voice sickeningly sweet.

Smith stares at you for a second and then breaks, covering his mouth to laugh, and now you can’t stay serious either and you laugh too.

“What the fuck was that?” Smith asks, gesturing at you and shaking his head, his laughter turned into a wide smile.

“I was being adorable, didn’t you notice?” You’re sure that your expression matches his.

“It was terrifying and I never want to hear that again.” He points an accusing finger at you. “It’s going to be in my nightmares.”

“I could only make your nightmares less scary and more interesting,” you say, even though you know there are nightmares you’ve had that nothing could make less terrifying, dreams of bad decisions and worse consequences that you like to tell yourself don’t bother you anymore. Smith must have his own bad dreams as well.

He doesn’t reply to that and instead says, “To answer your question, no. I never brought Fletcher here. I tried not to take him to any place that had something to do with my job.”

“That must have really limited your options,” you point out, and Smith’s face tells you that you were right.

The conversation moves on to more general topics. Both of you avoid mentioning Mickey Pearson and your boys, and you entertain yourselves commenting on the people around you and discussing whether or not you’d be able to take the thugs (“They’re Dave and Bunny”) in a fight. You talk while you eat and keep talking long after you’ve finished your food.

You don’t even bother looking at the check when it arrives and let Smith pay, and then he’s driving you home.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say when the car stops in front of your building. “Do you want to come in?”

You’re really hoping he says yes. You want to know what he does when he can take his time with a man, and you want to make him come undone again.

“I’d love to, but it’s later than I planned for.” He sounds apologetic, and you wonder how long you’ll have to wait to touch him again.

“Pity.” You exhale heavily. “When are you free?”

“You could come over on Friday night. If you get there early, we can have dinner.” He says it casually, like he doesn’t mean anything by it. Perhaps he doesn’t.

Then again, last night you found him eating dinner alone in his kitchen. Both of you could have dinner alone on Friday, or eat together instead before fucking.

“Sure. Text me the time.”

You once again don’t get to watch him drive away. He stays parked in front of your building until you go inside.

* * *

If you'd been asked about your expectations for what starting the arrangement with Raymond Smith would be like, you'd have said you hoped the man would be good in bed and that he wouldn't secretly be a psychopath that would threaten you or your boys if he didn't like something. That was all you wanted and needed. You couldn't have imagined you'd end up at his place on a Friday afternoon helping him cook.

He texted you the time you should get to his house for dinner, and then he asked you how you felt about steak. It dawned on you that this man _cooks_ and that if you got there at the appointed time you'd find the food waiting for you, and it seemed very rude to keep eating his food without helping, so you told him you'd be there early to help with dinner.

"You know I've been cooking for years, right?" he said when he took you to the kitchen. "I can do this without help."

"I didn’t until just now. Still, it's my dinner too. What sort of example would I be giving if I let you do everything?" You rolled up your sleeves and washed your hands in the sink before he had a chance to ask, and he looked pleased when you turned towards him again.

"Something like a caveman," he said, handing you an apron and immediately starting to give you instructions.

It's easy work because he gives you the dull tasks, like peeling potatoes, and you pass the time talking about your week and plans for the weekend. Your boys have a match coming up. Smith wants to drive somewhere for the day. Your days passed as usual and you both seem to have reached the conclusion that the less you know about Smith's job, the better, so you mostly talk about how your boys are doing.

"Do they know you're here now?" Smith asks as he sets the table. Today, he sets the places on one end of it, one in front of the other.

"No, and I'm not telling them."

He nods. "Makes sense. After everything that happened, I don't think they'd be happy to know you're still talking to me."

You almost laugh at that.

"Talking? Is that what we're calling it?" 

He returns to the kitchen and sets the food on the plates. You don't bother offering to help with this and only watch him as he works.

"No, it isn't." He looks up at you, eyes inviting. "But they don't need to know about everything else."

He hands you your plate and both of you head for the table and sit down.

"They might actually be happy if they found out what we've been doing," you say after your first bite. Damn, this man can cook. Mickey Pearson really doesn't know what he's missing out on.

Smith looks at you questioningly.

You eat another bite while you decide how to say this.

"They asked me what it was that Pearson wanted with me that night and I told them he was trying to set me up with you." Smith stares. "They really liked the idea."

"You told your boys that Michael was trying to set you up with me and they liked it," he says flatly.

"They want me to date." You shrug and eat some more.

"They really are your children, aren't they?" he says, his lips pressed tightly in an attempt not to smile.

"My lads. I told you when we met."

"I remember." Smith loses his battle and smiles at his food. "They also didn't comment on me liking men?"

"You really want someone to have an opinion on that, don't you?" You look at him curiously.

"There's always someone with an opinion." He says it far too detachedly for you to believe it.

"They're good lads. Impulsive and too creative for their own sake, but good." Lower, more serious, you add, "I don't tolerate bullshit in my gym."

Smith looks at you like he did at the restaurant, like he's studying a picture and trying to find what's hidden in it, and seems like he wants to say something, but in the end he only nods once and says, "In a way, Michael succeeded that night, didn't he?"

You hum in thought.

"I guess he did." You eat a bite to give yourself more time to think.

"He certainly put an idea in your head," Smith says, giving you a meaningful look.

"That was entirely your doing. You said he thought you wanted to take me out for dinner and go down on me and that was certainly an image." You laugh after realizing what you just said. "And you ended up doing it."

"Oh." He blinks. "I did, didn't I?"

You nod.

He sighs and grabs his glass.

"He doesn't have to know that." He sounds almost sad when he says it. He certainly sounds hurt.

"Why, you think he'll be jealous?"

"He won't be jealous." He drinks. "What he will be is smug, since now we're…" an amused smile dances on his lips for an instant, "talking."

"So we _are_ calling it that," you say to lighten the mood, because Smith isn't looking at you and his expression is carefully neutral.

"Only sometimes." You look down at your plate to give him some privacy. “And we _are_ talking right now.”

“Are we? I thought this was foreplay.”

“I can do better than this,” he says. You glance at him and find he’s returned his attention to his food.

Both of you drop the topic and enjoy the rest of your dinner. After that, you help him clean up, because you remember very clearly that that first night you didn’t even clear your side of the table. And after that he gives you a tour of the house, because both of you would rather wait a few minutes before starting on each other.

“I can’t help but feel like we’re not doing this casual thing in the right way,” Smith says as you leave the toilet, looking very entertained by whatever it was that he’d been thinking that led him to say that.

“As long as it works for us, I don’t see any problem with our way,” you say, drying your hands on your clothes and walking towards him. “So now… bedroom, or do you prefer something less personal?”

“I’m not fucking on the couch, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, gesturing for you to follow him.

“Never?” It had looked like a very nice couch.

“Tonight, at least.” He opens the door to his room and lets you in. The first thing you see is that his bed is far too big for one person. “I like to be comfortable,” he says when he notices what you’re looking at.

“You could fit three people here, Ray.” You move towards the bed and sit on it. “Are you having secret orgies?”

“If I told you, they wouldn’t be secret anymore.” He comes to stand in front of you, and you tentatively put your hands on his hips.

“You could invite me for the next one.” Since he’s not moving away, you pull him closer.

“I’ll add you to the group chat.” He looks down at you with laughter in his eyes and reaches for your glasses. You let him remove them and set them on his nightstand.

“How do we do this?” you ask him as he sits down next to you.

“Do you have a preference?”

“No. You?”

“Me neither.”

“Coin toss?”

The coin toss says that you'll top.

You lie back on his bed - that probably has sheets with whatever many threads fancy sheets have - and enjoy it while he goes to get what you’ll need.

“Already asleep?” he asks, nudging your knee with his own.

You raise yourself on your elbows to look at him, gesturing with your head to what he’s carrying.

“Did you already have everything or did you go shopping for me?”

“Yes,” he says, setting everything on his nightstand. You see lube, condoms, and gloves, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact that this man wants you to wear gloves when you lube him up or that he didn’t bother asking you to wear a condom and instead simply brought one, but now you’re feeling very proud of yourself for deciding to sleep with Raymond Smith, the safest lay in the country.

You’re also feeling almost fond of him, so you stand up, put your hands on his hips and slowly move your face close to his, giving him plenty of time to push you away if this isn’t how he wants things to go.

He meets you halfway, his eyes closing right before his mouth touches yours. Ray’s lips are softer than you expected, and they part for you when you touch them with the tip of your tongue. His kiss, however, is determined and hungry, and you can tell that he’ll do his best to wreck you when he gets the chance from how he bites your lip and the sound he makes when you let your hands move lower. He pulls down your jacket’s zipper and snakes his hands under the fabric to rest on your chest and back, and you wonder if he could have imagined this happening back when he’d looked at you with only a hint of interest in his eyes as you said goodbye forever.

He pushes back your jacket, letting it drop to the floor, and breaks the kiss to take off his own glasses, moving away from you to set them next to yours on his nightstand, both of them away from the edge and away from the bed, as safe as they can be. Your eyes go to his hands, follow the line of his arms up to his shoulders and neck and then finally to his face, and when your gaze meets his, Ray smirks and takes off his sweater.

You once again move into his space, guiding him until he’s sitting on the bed, and you smile when he starts tugging at your shirt. You lean down and put a hand on the side of his neck as you kiss him, your other hand resting on his thigh, but he’s more interested in undressing you, so you have to break the kiss so he can help you out of your shirt and you can help him out of his. After that, you see no reason not to take a second to look at all the newly exposed skin.

There’s a proud tilt to Ray’s head as he leans back on his elbows, watching you with the same amount of interest with which you’re watching him.

You lean forward to kiss him, and he puts an arm around your shoulders and pulls you with him as he lifts his legs to the bed and turns to lie back. You manage not to end up falling on him, and you press yourself against him to feel his skin against yours and let the contact set you on fire.

His hands map your back and you move to press open-mouthed kisses on his neck, careful not to leave any type of mark, your hand caressing every inch of skin it can reach. Ray puts a leg around your hips and pulls you close, raising his hips to grind against you, and you scratch the skin of his shoulder with your teeth and move against him, reckless and dirty, until he starts unbuttoning your trousers and you move away to help him finish undressing too.

You get a glove and the lube from the nightstand while he pulls back the covers, and you think about your earlier fantasies, of holding him against you while you make him lose his composure.

He watches you get things ready for him, still proud and confident, and imagining him moaning your name makes it difficult to focus on what you’re doing. You manage.

“Come here,” you say, reaching for him and pulling him to your lap.

There’s a small shift on his expression that makes you think he didn’t expect this.

“I didn’t get to see your face when I went down on you,” you explain as you circle him with a finger, studying him for any sign of discomfort, “and I won’t get to see it when you’re on your hands and knees.” You start slowly pushing into him and smirk at his narrowed eyes.

“You’re a cunt,” he says, his hands settling on your shoulders. His fingers twitch as you start stretching him.

“There’s no need to be rude, Ray.”

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. You keep working on him.

“I’m the asshole you’re about to fuck, I can say whatever I want,” he says after a few seconds.

You snort and start with a second finger.

“Did you have to pause to think up that retort?”

Ray opens his eyes and only gives you a judging look.

“I’m a bit distracted right now,” he says through gritted teeth, closing his eyes again.

“I can see that.” Your tone is very, very smug and you don’t mind at all that he can hear it. Your voice is also rough around the edges, and you don’t mind if he notices that either.

You think about asking him if he picked the word ‘asshole’ from his boss or if he’s always used it, but then you see how his face has started to relax and decide against it. You don’t think bringing up his unrequited love would do much for the mood you’re trying to maintain. It might be the best for both of you if you stay silent.

It’ll definitely be better for him if you can add a third finger, no matter how much it almost hurts to wait.

His eyes stay closed and you watch him relax and start to enjoy himself, and it’s almost enough to distract you from your hard-on. There’s a part of you that wonders if the reason Ray isn’t looking at you is that he’s trying to imagine that the man currently fingering him is Mickey Pearson, but then you figure that it doesn’t matter as long as he doesn’t end up calling you ‘Michael’. You want him to remember that it’s you with him right now.

“I think you’re ready,” you tell him when you feel your fingers easily slide into him.

“Finally,” he sighs, and it goes straight to your cock and to your head.

You hurry to remove the glove and put on the condom while Ray settles on the bed on his hands and knees. If you weren’t desperate, you’d give yourself a few seconds to enjoy the view; since you are, you go straight to asking him if he’s ready.

“Get on with it,” he says, urgent.

And then you’re fucking Raymond Smith.

You like how he feels around you, you like the way he arches his back, and you like that he tells you exactly what he wants, but what makes you almost dizzy with how good it feels is when he finally says your name, his voice curling around the word like you’re the center of his universe.

You think you say his name in the same way, but you're not really paying attention to your own words; your brain has more important things to worry about than what you say to Ray, like how close you are to coming and how you better do something soon if you don't want him complaining later. You put a hand around his cock and jerk him off, enjoying how he tells you to keep going, how much he likes what you're doing, and how eventually it's just your name that he says as he comes. After that, you're free to let go as well.

You pull out and lie down next to Ray, arms and legs spread out, and Ray simply flops down on his front and throws an arm over your chest in some odd claiming gesture that couldn't be called a hug by even the most generous person. His skin is warm against yours and when you close your eyes his touch is the only real thing in the universe, more certain than even your own heart, that's still beating fast and telling you that, yes, you did just have Mickey Pearson's right-hand man moaning your name. You're sure that he'll do his best to have you screaming his next time.

You smile at the idea and look at Ray, who's watching you through half-lidded eyes, expression pleased.

You throw the condom to the floor and turn to lie on your side, moving closer to Ray to bury a hand in his hair and kiss him, lazy and dirty, with him sucking on your lip and you sighing against his mouth, still thinking about how Mickey Pearson doesn't know what he's missing.

He breaks the kiss to grab the covers and pull them over both of you, then he rests his head on his crossed arms, his face turned towards you, eyes slightly narrowed like he's still trying to figure something out. You lie back again and let him watch you, content in the silence, which is only broken by the occasional car going down the road.

You don't know how much time has passed when he says, "I'm free tomorrow."

You'd tease him for his eagerness if you hadn't been mentally going through your schedule as well.

"There's that match I mentioned earlier," you say, shaking your head.

"Ah, right."

"Sunday, my place?" you suggest tentatively.

"Only if we meet up earlier. I have to work on Monday."

You won't ask him about that.

"That works for me." You sit up and stretch. "I have to be at the gym early on Monday."

Smith pushes himself up and you take the chance to appreciate his arms as he does so. He notices you staring and smiles at you, amused and promising.

"Come on, I'll explain the shower to you," he says, getting out of the bed and not even bothering to cover himself.

You pick up the trash from the floor and follow him to the bathroom, and once there you tell him to shower with you, half because he’s a nice thing to look at, half because it’s comfortable to have someone to wash your back and not needing to remember the exact way you have to turn the knob to get the water at the right temperature. You wonder if he thinks anything of the scars you have, the ones you can’t pretend are the product of something innocuous and innocent, if he’s looking at them and remembering that you killed two men in his garden with ease and no hesitation. You wonder what conclusions he’s drawing and how close they are to the truth.

He doesn’t ask, and so you don’t ask him either about the marks on his own skin, except for the one on the lower right of his abdomen.

“Appendix?” you ask him, brushing the scar with two fingers as you step out of the shower.

“When I was seventeen,” he confirms, grabbing towels from under the sink. “How do you know that?”

“You think you’re the first person with an appendectomy scar I’ve slept with?” You take the towel he hands you and start drying yourself.

“I could be.” He dries himself quickly; oddly disinterested compared to all the care he seems to put in everything else about himself. “They do the surgery differently now.” He hums in thought. "Did one of your exes make a point of telling you they didn't have an appendix? That's an odd thing to talk about."

"Don't judge my pillow talk, or I'll ask you about Fletcher," you say, mock serious.

Smith grimaces.

"He talked a lot about himself, if you're wondering." He leaves the bathroom, taking the towel with him. “Any other questions about me?” he calls from his room.

You wrap the towel around your waist and go out in search of your clothes.

"None for now." You spot your underwear next to the bed.

Smith shows up in pyjama pants and carrying clean sheets.

"Help me with this," he says, and you find yourself in your underwear helping him change the sheets. It must be a pain to change them alone, what with how unnecessarily big the bed is.

Once done, he takes a look out the window, then back at you and says, "You can stay if you don't want to drive in the dark."

You've started picking up your clothes again and take your time grabbing your jacket, using those seconds to try to figure out what he means with that. In the end, you simply frown and look at him.

"Stay?"

"It's a simple offer, don't try to find anything in it," he says dismissively, sitting down on the bed. "It's dark and some people don't like driving at night."

"Where would I sleep?"

That wasn't a very smart question. Thankfully, Smith's expression remains neutral.

"You can use the spare room or sleep here." He shrugs. "It's a big bed."

You look at Smith's chest and arms, think of mapping them with your tongue, and shake your head.

"I don't have a toothbrush."

"I have spares."

"And I don't have clothes for tomorrow. I don't even have something to sleep in today."

He half smiles and tilts his head to look at you before saying, "You know you can say no, right? No need for excuses."

You know that. Saying 'no' has been an option since the day you helped him with Fletcher, it's simply that you keep deciding not to, and you still don't know why.

"I don't want to stay over, Ray." You start getting dressed.

Smith nods and stands up to get his pyjama top.

"For the record, if you ever want to stay, you can." He sounds like he means it.

Once again, you think of fairy tales, and how you must not fall asleep in the fae realm.

"I'll keep it in mind." You fully intend to never take him up on the offer. You've eaten his food and you've had sex with him, but you still know where the exit is.

He walks you to the door, looks you in the eye and says, "Text me when you get home;" then he's closing the door before you can point out that you're an adult, that he's only a guy you're sleeping with, and that his request shows he's awful at this 'casual' thing.

It leaves you with nothing to do but walk to your car without looking back.

You text him when you get home.

Ray texts you back to wish you a good night a minute later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Welcome back to this fic!
> 
> First, a shout out to Sofia. It's been years since I last wrote a fic for a fandom she cared about, it's so nice to brainstorm with her again.
> 
> Second, super extra especial thanks to the people that commented on the first chapter. I absolutely loved writing those 14k words, so seeing that other people were enjoying them too made me feel very happy and eager to keep writing.
> 
> Third, and most important: I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Few things make it more obvious that fucking Raymond Smith is a bad idea than opening your door on Sunday and noticing how he clashes with the hallway. Your building is a monument to bad maintenance, with flickering lights and formerly-white paint in all the common areas, but the place is cheap, the plumbing has never betrayed anyone, and you don’t spend long enough in your flat to care about anything but how safe it is to fall asleep in it. Smith, meanwhile, stands in front of you wearing a black coat and shoes, grey trousers and sweater, and a white shirt with the top two buttons undone, tidy and almost elegant in the way he holds himself, two adjectives that nobody would associate with this building. You know there must be a gun hidden under that coat.

“Hello, Ray.” You smile at him and take a step to the side.

“Hi.” He raises a hand to show you a bag as he walks in. You carefully ignore how the movement lets you see the holster of his gun. “I brought my leftovers from yesterday.”

There are two locks and a chain on the door you opened to let this man into your flat. You don’t think about that either.

“Ray, at this point I have to ask you,” you say as you close the door, turning towards him. “Do you think I can’t cook?”

He gives you a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought your own food to my place.”

He looks at the bag and then back at you. Slowly, enough that you know he’s only doing it for effect, he smiles at you, small and lopsided with a hint of mischief, and says, “It’s for you. If you still feel like getting up to make dinner after I’m done with you, I’m ending our arrangement.”

You snort and shake your head, then take the bag off his hands as you say, “I’ll be the one ending this if it turns out you’re giving me false expectations.” You bring the bag to the kitchen to put the food in the fridge. “Is this curry?” you ask, inspecting the container without opening it. He only brought one portion.

“Yes,” Smith calls from the living room. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that, Ray. I was only asking.”

You do a quick inventory of the fridge’s contents before closing it and joining Smith. He’s taken off his coat and left it folded on the couch. He also removed the holster, and you suspect you’d find the gun if you searched under his coat.

Smith is looking out your window, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the street.

“Anything interesting?” you ask him, standing next to him.

He shakes his head and turns towards you.

“Shall we?” he says, tilting his head towards the door that leads to your room.

He didn’t see your room the previous time. There wasn’t much to see in it then and there isn’t much to see in it now, just a bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe and some trinkets. Everything that’s worth anything to you is kept at the office or somewhere safe.

Smith looks at your bed and you nearly choke on air trying not to laugh at how carefully neutral his expression is.

“That’s what a normal-sized bed looks like, Ray,” you tease.

His lips part and he raises his eyes to give you an unimpressed look. It doesn’t affect you, you’re far too interested in moving into Smith’s space and bringing a hand to the collar of his shirt to toy with the top button.

“Is this for me?” you ask him, letting the back of your fingers touch his skin.

“Define ‘this’.” He puts his hands on your waist and smirks.

“I distinctly remember you keeping your shirt buttoned all the way up back when I brought you that journalist’s video.” You grin when he grimaces, and laugh when he drops his hands and takes a step away from you.

“Did you have to bring that up now?” He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his fingers.

“All I’m saying is that that day you showed me nothing, and that the other times we met you were wearing ties.” You go to get the lube, the condoms and the gloves. “But you weren’t wearing a tie on Friday, or today,” you say from the bathroom.

Smith is still looking mildly disgusted when you return, so you hand him the items to distract him. He inspects them and nods in approval before setting them on the nightstand, along with his glasses.

"We were talking about ties?" he says, sitting down on the bed.

"About how you're not wearing one," you say, standing in front of him.

"Oh, that." He puts his hands on your hips and pulls you towards him. “Considering what we're meeting for? It seemed like a waste of effort.”

“That’s practical,” you say, straddling him.

"I can wear a tie next time if you want." One of his hands sneaks under your shirt and lies flat on your back, keeping you steady. The other removes your glasses and leaves them next to his own.

"We still don't know if there'll be a next time, Ray," you say, mock chastising. "You talked yourself up just a few minutes ago, remember?" Your hand settles on the back of his neck. The hand he has under your shirt starts drawing circles on your skin.

"There'll be a next time," he says, tone deceptively plain. "And a next one. And another one."

"I'd like that," you say, moving your face closer to his, and then Ray closes the distance and kisses you.

It's easy, after that. There's touching, and groping, and undressing. There's Ray kissing your neck and your fingers digging into his shoulders as he prepares you. There almost is some whining because of how long he spends on that.

"For fuck's sake, Ray, you're not that thick," you say as he pushes deep inside you with only one finger, making you shudder with need.

"I'm being cautious, have some patience." You could swear he wants to laugh, but your brain is far too distracted by how Ray still hasn't fucked you for you to even try to judge him.

You think you could cry from relief when he finally does, and then maybe out of gratitude because he's clearly aiming towards meeting the expectations he created.

Mickey Pearson must really love his wife if he's willingly missing out on this.

Afterwards, as you lie on your front and Ray lies on his side next to you, you think you should invest in a bigger bed; one that won't have you feeling his breath against your shoulder as you enjoy the afterglow. You try to ignore it; try to remember that he’s lying close to you because you don’t have a bed meant for three people, that the limits between you are clear.

It's hard to do so when Ray presses his fingertips to the small of your back and quietly says, "You're tense."

"It's nothing," you mutter. You need him to stop touching you. You want to stay like this.

Ray hums, doubtful, and starts dragging his fingers upwards, drawing figures on your skin, and you tell yourself it's alright, that you can close your eyes and relax under his touch. You take deep breaths and entertain yourself trying to discover if there's any meaning behind his movements or if they're simply random lines, and after a while you forget what was so wrong about this.

"I think we're having a next time," Ray says softly, smug and content.

"Yeah, I don't want to get up and cook now," you mumble against the pillow.

You open an eye to look at Ray and find him looking pleased with himself. You close it again and let him enjoy the moment. He earned it.

Eventually, you have to get out of bed, because Smith has started growing uncomfortable with the sweat and the smell of sex, so you drag him to the shower with you and take another chance to study his skin as you wash his back.

There's something slightly off in Smith's appearance after he's done getting dressed, maybe how his hair hasn’t been carefully combed back or maybe how relaxed he seems to be, but the ensemble doesn't work the same way as it did at the beginning. He still doesn't belong in your building, but at least he looks at ease as he follows you to the kitchen.

"Aren't you happy I brought those leftovers now?" he says, leaning against the doorframe as you take containers out of the fridge.

"I had my own leftovers, but I appreciate the gesture," you say, showing him said food as you speak. "Are you staying for dinner? With what you brought and what I already had, there's enough for the two of us."

He hesitates. You hope he decides to stay, there's no reason for both of you to eat alone.

"Do you have a table?" he finally says, stepping into the kitchen and starting to search for plates and cutlery.

You have a small, foldable one that he sets up in the living room while you reheat the food.

"Were you really planning on not eating here?" you ask him as you bring over the plates.

"What do you mean?" He sits down.

"You brought over only one portion." You sit down as well and look at him accusingly. "Were you going to leave me to eat alone?"

"We never discussed dinner in our plans for today.” He shrugs. “I only wanted to make sure you ate well."

"You know you're bad at having something casual, don't you?" you ask him, slightly disbelieving.

"Luckily for us, you know that I don't mean anything with all of this."

"I can't imagine what you're like when you're emotionally available," you say, shaking your head, and you don't understand what it is about that that makes him give you an amused smile.

You proceed to talk about your boys' match, the place Smith drove to yesterday, and your plans for the week.

You agree to meet again on Friday at Smith's. You'll get there early to help him cook.

When he picks up his coat to leave, you remember that he brought a gun with him.

* * *

Sometimes you think you should worry more about how easily you let Smith into your life. You think about it when you see him leaving the room to answer a call or frowning at text messages. You think about it when you find a bruise while unbuttoning his shirt. You think about it when he carefully puts his folded coat on top of his gun to hide it from view.

You tell yourself it's all going to be alright when you’re kissing him, when you have him moaning your name, when he throws an arm over you as you lie side by side. You tell yourself there’s no harm for you in this and allow yourself to create a routine with Smith in it: dinner and sex on Fridays, sex and dinner on Sundays.

The rest of your days go on as usual, and you let the days and the weeks pass, and one day you look at the date and realize it’s been two months since you showed up at Smith’s house with a bad idea and questionable intentions.

“Two months already?” he says as he helps you cook. At some point you managed to talk him into letting you be in charge of dinner on alternating weeks, and you’re proud of yourself that he hasn’t complained even once about it.

“Two months already,” you confirm.

Two months of cooking, of giving him shit over Fletcher, of texting him when you get home after being with him.

You're still not staying over. You keep doing everything in your power to wreck him when you're together. You've never talked about Mickey Pearson, both of you changing the topic whenever he comes up in conversation.

You turn to ask him something irrelevant to keep the conversation going and find him watching you in that way you've grown used to, eyes slightly narrowed and lips parted, like he has an idea about you that he's trying to put into words.

You take a step towards him and give him a questioning look.

"Ray?"

He blinks once and looks at you apologetically.

"We have to talk," he says resignedly. That can't be good, but you can't imagine anything related to you that could make him sound like that.

"Let's talk, then," you say. You check the stove is turned off and that nothing is at any risk of falling and approach him again, leaning against the kitchen table. "What is it?" Curious, but not nervous. The biggest thing that could happen is that he got over Pearson and he's ending things with you.

It's funny, but you think you're going to miss him. You will definitely miss this kitchen.

He almost smiles at your tone.

"People usually react differently when they hear those words," he says.

"Because they are break-up words," you say, shrugging with one shoulder. "You and I aren't in a relationship. I guess you want to stop this?”

Smith presses his lips into a tight line.

“No, this is…” He removes his glasses, closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose.

You tense up.

“Don’t tell me you want to start something serious,” you say coldly, almost unconsciously leaning away from Smith.

He lowers his hand and frowns at you.

“No, don’t worry,” he says after a second, putting on his glasses again. "It's not that." He moves away from you and grabs some dirty items from the table, taking them to the sink. "Michael knows you and I have been…" he hesitates, "talking." He turns to look at you again, expression neutral.

"Did you tell him?" Hadn't he said he didn't want Pearson to know?

"He asked."

You try to imagine what reasons Pearson could have had for that. Jealousy? Has he finally decided to stop missing out on everything Smith has to offer?

No, it can’t be that. Smith said that Pearson didn't care, and you’re inclined to believe him.

"You'll have to be clearer than that, because that doesn't tell me anything," you finally say.

Smith exhales heavily.

"Remember when you dropped that pot the other day?" You nod. "I was on the phone with Michael in that moment. He later asked me who was with me."

You make a face.

"Couldn't you lie to him?"

Smith barely raises an eyebrow before saying, "I try not to lie to Michael."

“That sounds smart." You sigh. “What exactly did you tell him?”

“That it was you here that night,” he says simply.

“Nothing else?” You don’t believe this. There’s something you’re missing here.

Smith’s lips once again press into a tight line, but this time the slight twitching of the corner of his mouth betrays that he’s trying not to smile.

“He didn’t ask why you were here and I wasn’t going to give him unnecessary details.”

It’s you who ends up smiling, appreciative and amused. Smith deliberately keeping information from his boss was something unexpected. Then again, Smith doesn’t look like someone who wants to go around discussing his sex life.

“Isn’t that lying by omission?” you tease.

“I was completely honest,” he says seriously, looking you in the eye like he’s offended by you daring to imply he wasn’t. After a second he relaxes slightly and adds, “Besides, I didn’t think you’d appreciate being back on Michael’s radar.”

Ray kept information from Pearson out of respect for you.

“I’m assuming it didn’t really work,” you say, deciding not to think about that. “Or you wouldn’t be bringing it up now.”

Smith twists his mouth.

“He’s hosting a dinner party next Saturday and told me to invite you.” He licks his lips. "As my date."

You blink and stare. Smith holds your gaze and waits.

“He wants me at some elegant dinner?” you ask flatly.

“Yes.”

“As your date.” Your tone doesn’t change.

There’s nothing in his posture to tell you that he isn’t fine with the conversation. His shoulders are relaxed, his face betrays nothing. His reply comes half a second later than you expected.

“Yes.”

You remember that first dinner with him, when he’d sat at the other end of the table and you’d approached him slowly and carefully.

“Did Fletcher ever get invited to any of those things?” you ask instead of what you truly want to know.

The effect is immediate: Smith gives you an unimpressed look.

“Genuine question,” you hurry to say. “I’m trying to understand this.”

“Fletcher was never invited to anything,” Smith replies, not changing the way he’s looking at you.

“If he’s hosting a dinner, shouldn’t you be working that night?” you ask, frowning. “Making sure nobody tries anything suspicious?” Maybe threatening someone, dragging some poor bastard to a room and talking to him oh so pleasantly while a gun lies in plain sight on the desk.

“He said I’d earned a night off.” He makes a face and turns towards the sink again to start washing what he left in it.

You watch his back and think of Pearson inviting you to dinner two months ago, as Smith’s date. You think of Smith laughing sadly as he drove you back home. You think of Smith telling you Pearson would be smug if he knew what the two of you have been doing.

“Ray?” you ask tentatively as he fights a cutting board.

“Yes?” You decide to believe he sounds tense because he’s paying attention to what he’s doing, not because he’s worried about where the conversation’s going.

“I have a question. You don’t have to answer it.” You’d prefer that to him deciding to lie to you.

He finishes washing the cutting board and leaves it to dry. He dries his hands on the kitchen towel and turns to look at you again.

“Go ahead.” Neutral tone. Neutral expression. Maybe you’re wrong and there’s no problem here.

“Why is your boss inviting me to dinner?”

He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“You don’t have to go. I told him you’d probably be busy.”

You watch him, waiting to see if he’s going to answer your question. He only looks back at you.

“Thank you,” you say when you conclude he’s not saying anything else. “I appreciate it.” You mean it, though. You hope he knows that.

He nods once and returns to what’s in the sink, so you go back to cooking. Between giving instructions and making sure everything comes out right, you almost forget about Pearson’s invitation.

You certainly forget about it when you and Ray make your way to his room after dinner. You have better things to think about, so later it takes you by surprise when Ray says, “He said he's happy for me.”

His words are half muffled by the mattress and your skin, because he seems to think that the best way to cool down after sex is to become a starfish and throw an arm and leg over you, which always leaves you with his breath against your shoulder and feeling too hot to be comfortable.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, barely moving your head to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Earlier, you asked me why Michael invited you to dinner.” He sighs, and it’s so warm against your skin that it burns you. “He’s inviting you to dinner because he thinks it’s good that I have someone in my life to distract me."

"Did he say it exactly like that?" you ask, sitting up.

Ray, bastard that he is, doesn't move from where he is and now his arm is thrown over your thighs and his breath is against your hip.

"I told him you might not be able to go to dinner and that we didn't have something serious, and he said that it didn't matter, that he was happy I was spending time with someone." He says it simply, like it's only a fact, something that happened, like what he feels for Pearson isn't something he's still working on. "He thinks that a distraction is good for me."

His eyes are closed and he looks tired. You don't think that's only because of what you recently did to him.

You lick your lips and say, "So this is another step in your boss' plans to help you get over him."

Ray snorts.

"Yes, that's what it is." He moves to lie on his side and look up at you. His arm remains on your thighs. "He seems to mean well."

Wasn't the road to Hell paved with good intentions?

"He needs to stop trying to help you," you say, tapping on his arm. "He's making you miserable."

He smirks and drums his fingers on your skin.

"I'm content with what his previous attempt led to." As if to ensure you know what he means, he slowly drags his hand down your thigh.

"That's only because you were lucky enough that he thought you were interested in me." You bury your hand in his hair and look seriously at him. "Do you want me to beat him up?"

He frowns and studies your face.

"Where did that come from?"

You shrug and lie down again so you can face him, forcing Ray to finally get his arm off you. Your hand slides to his shoulder.

"I appreciate what his meddling led to, but you don't want him having anything to do with your private life." You grin and lightly say, "I'm trying to defend your honor."

Ray sighs and gives you an amused look that borders on fond.

"You can't fight him. You'd force me to do something about it."

You remember the gun you keep pretending not to notice and let your hand drop to the bed.

"Don't I get some special treatment?"

The corner of his mouth rises in a private smile.

"You do, but I get more out of being on good terms with Michael than with you."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I had you screaming my name fifteen minutes ago," you point out. You like it when he says it, you like the way his voice curls around it, you like the difference between him using your name and calling you ‘Coach’, and you need to stop thinking about that, because Ray saying your name is one of your favorite things and it sends your mind straight to the gutter.

"He pays my salary. Sex with you is free."

"I give you food at least once a week," you say, mock indignant, and your reward is how Ray tries not to laugh.

"My salary can buy food."

"You wound me, Ray."

"You'll live."

Unlike others. You think of Ray holding his gun, looking from the corpses on the ground to you, and wonder how things would have gone if you'd decided to leave.

"So," you say sharply, forcing yourself out of your thoughts. "Dinner next Saturday at Pearson's."

"A dinner party you don't have to attend, yes," Ray points out.

"Are those fun enough to go alone to?" you ask, disbelieving.

His silence tells you everything.

"I'm going with you," you say impulsively, already wondering if this dinner will affect next week’s Friday or Sunday plans.

"You don't have to," he insists.

You press your fingertips to his chest and look at him in the eye before saying, "If you don't want me there, you can say it, Ray. I won't get offended."

He shakes his head and raises himself on his elbows to look down at you. You move your hand to his arm and start distractedly caressing him, dragging the backs of your fingers up and down his skin.

“Sleeping together is one thing. Going to a dinner party with me?” He looks away from you for a moment. “You’ll be surrounded by all those people you didn’t want to deal with.”

“Are you worried about me, Ray?” you ask teasingly.

He doesn’t look amused.

_Oh._

You school your expression and pull him towards you to kiss him, tugging at his lower lip with your teeth as you move away.

“Don’t worry,” you say as he puts a hand to your chest and pushes you until you’re lying on your back. He sits up and looks down at you as you add, “As long as nobody asks me for any favors, we’ll be fine.”

“You’re taking this better than I expected,” he says, his hand trailing up and down your chest.

“What were you expecting?”

"After the face you made when you thought I wanted us to have a proper relationship? I was sure this would have you running away as soon as I turned my back on you."

“First of all, you turning your back on me means I get to see your best side." He shakes his head in disbelief. "I wouldn't miss that by running away."

"It's nice to know you are so interested in me as a person." His attempt at deadpanning is ruined by the smile in his eyes.

"I like the way you talk too, don't worry," you say, your hand once again caressing his arm. "But, getting back on track? I'm not the running away type."

"Never?"

"You don't have to look so incredulous." Or sound so incredulous either.

"You _did_ look like you were going to run away earlier," he points out.

"You took me by surprise," you say dismissively. "I was clear when we started that this wasn't a relationship."

"Your loss, really," he says, his hand settling on your hip. "I'm a catch."

You stare at him, trying to figure out where that came from, if he's serious or joking, if there's any sort of intention behind the comment.

"Ray, you work for a drug lord and you're emotionally unavailable," you finally say, and you only realize how tense you were when his smirk tells you that he hadn’t meant anything with his words.

"I also cook and sometimes make you come without touching your cock." His thumb draws a circle on your thigh. “You’d really miss on that just to avoid a relationship?”

You raise an eyebrow and give him a curiously amused look.

“Why are we talking about this? Neither of us wants to date the other.”

“True, but I’m offended that you seem to think that dating me would be so bad.” He says it in such a way that you’d think he doesn’t care, but you haven’t spent two months paying attention to Ray for nothing.

You almost laugh when you realize what’s happening.

“Did I hurt your feelings? Is this about your ego?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m not the worst thing that could happen to you,” he says, still sounding like he doesn’t care.

“So it’s about your ego,” you say, still trying not to laugh.

“You’re the worst.” He removes his hand from your hip, but you catch it and pull him towards you, let him fall gracelessly on top of you and give you an unimpressed look.

He recovers quickly and puts his hands at either side of your head, moving to straddle you, caging you beneath him. For a moment, you think he wants to eat you up.

Instead, Ray cups your face with one hand and leans down to kiss you, his mouth hot against yours and somehow a better reminder of what the two of you do together than the fact that right now you're naked in his bed.

“Is that your attempt to convince me I should fall in love with you?” you say against his mouth, amused and teasing.

“That would be cruel. I’m still not relationship material,” Ray says, raising himself on his hands to watch your face. “And clearly, neither are you.” He narrows his eyes slightly. “Why are you so opposed to romance?”

You swallow, suddenly aware of the position you’re in.

“Is that relevant?” you ask disinterestedly. You’ve never been prey. This is just a power display. Smith won’t get to-

Ray sits up and moves to once again lie down on his front next to you, his head resting on his crossed arms.

“I’m curious.” He looks pensive for a second. “You wanted to sleep with me, but you didn’t do anything about it until you knew I wouldn’t be at risk of feeling something for you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” you say quickly. You don’t like how his words make you sound. Is this how Ray sees you? As cold and uncaring?

Ray hums, doubtful, and says, “Would you have suggested our arrangement if you’d thought there was a chance of me falling for you?”

You run his words through your mind. Ray has this habit of saying things in a way that forces you to read between the lines to find what's behind his words, and you need to make sure you get the important part of that question. He only looks at you as you think, and if he notices the moment you understand what he's truly asking, it doesn't show.

You have to sit up again. You need him to see your face as you say, “I’m not using you, Ray.”

He looks taken aback for a second.

“I didn’t say you were,” he says, lying on his side to look directly into your eyes more easily.

“You were thinking it.”

He swallows and keeps his eyes on you.

“No answer to that?” you ask when you realize he’s not going to speak, and try to tell yourself you didn’t sound hurt.

“I try not to lie to you either.” He sounds the same way you did. “You picked someone who you knew was in love with someone else and you’re adamant on how you don’t want a relationship. You can’t blame me for thinking it.”

He’s right and you hate it.

You close your eyes and exhale heavily.

“What I told you that night was true. I was attracted to you, I saw you were attracted to me too, and I thought we could have fun together. It wasn’t about you being in love with someone else, Ray.”

You open your eyes because he’s touching your forehead. He’s studying you, brow slightly furrowed, lips pressed tightly.

“And the reason I don’t want a relationship with you is that I’ve tried romance and it went wrong. It’s not you.” You smirk and add, “You really are a catch.”

His expression softens. His fingers trail down to your cheek.

“Are you telling me you’re afraid of falling in love?” His smile is sadly amused.

“I’m not afraid.” You are cautious. It’s different.

“I’m honest with you. I’d appreciate it if you extended the same courtesy to me.”

He can't imagine how much more honest you have been with him than with anybody else in years. You fired a gun again for him. You let him into your flat. You let him throw an arm over you after sex and burn you with his touch and breath. You're comfortable around him, even though you know you shouldn't lower your guard.

You close your eyes again and focus on Ray’s fingertips on your skin, moving from your cheek to your eye to your nose and from there to the other side of your face.

“Relationships are complicated and they always end messily,” you say quietly.

“They don’t always end,” he says just as quietly, matter-of-factly. He doesn’t stop mapping your face.

“Aren’t you a romantic?” you tease.

“Your frame of reference are some bad experiences and, what, the stories your boys tell you? They’re still young.”

You open your eyes to find Ray’s still studying you. You think he looks wistful.

“What are you thinking?” you ask him.

“I’m in love with someone that will never be with me, and you’re so afraid of romance that the mere idea of it being a possibility makes you want to end one of the best things you’ve had in your life.” He smiles, almost sad, almost amused. “We are rather pathetic, aren’t we?”

“At least we’re confident.” You’re unable to keep yourself from smiling. “You think you’re one of the best things I’ve ever had?”

“We’ve already established that I’m a catch.”

You snort and he laughs. His fingertips are still caressing your face.

“We should work on not being pathetic,” you say, not really thinking about what you’re saying, because you’ve developed a bad habit of not filtering your words around Ray.

“That sounds good.” He cups your jaw. “I’ll get over Michael and you’ll find someone to date.”

You make a face. “I’m not a fan of the second part.”

“There’s no hurry. You can start after our arrangement ends.”

“That works for me.”

He traces your lips and you think about parting them and taking one of his fingers into your mouth, to carefully lick it and suck on it, holding his hand and pressing kisses to his knuckles and palm, scratching the base of his thumb with your teeth and leaving a hickey on the inside of his wrist.

Ray drops his hand before you can decide what to do about that mental image, and you know that’s for the best. You have to remember who he is and where you are right now. He’s not a random person, he’s Mickey Pearson’s right-hand man; if you don’t tread carefully you might never get to leave.

“That was odd for us, wasn’t it?” you say, looking at him uncomfortably.

“The emotional honesty?” He doesn’t seem affected. Either he trusts you or he doesn’t really care about you knowing what he feels.

You nod.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, sounding mildly curious.

“No.” Not yet, at least, even though you should.

And there it is, his way of looking at you: eyes slightly narrowed, lips parted. You remember the stories, how you shouldn’t let anybody know your true name, or you’d be theirs forever. Ray knows your name and has more clues about your past than anybody else you currently know, yet he doesn't seem willing to settle for that and studies you like he doesn't want to miss a single comma in the book of your life. You don't know if you should be flattered or afraid.

You do know it's time to go home.

* * *

Sunday happens as usual: sex, dinner, goodbye and no expectations of hearing from Smith until Thursday, which is the day he texts to let you know whether or not you'll be meeting the next evening and what time you should get to his place depending on what the two of you will be making (ravioli took forever, ceviche didn't, everything else falls in between), except for the time he also texted you on a Friday to say something had come up and he'd be unable to meet you that day (you didn't ask him what he had to do).

You don't know what to think when he texts you the next day, asking you if you're free in the afternoon.

You find him parked in front of your building again, leaning against his car, gaze lost. He’s wearing formal clothes today, grey trousers and a coat you remember from that night he told you the Pearsons wanted to have dinner with you (you know that there’s a gun hidden under that coat, that there might be a new bruise under his shirt, and that there are things you’re better off pretending not to be aware of), and when you get close to him you see a white shirt, a dark grey tie and a matching vest.

Smith smiles when he sees you, content and relaxed.

“No smoking today?” you say, looking at the ground to see if you find anything that proves otherwise.

“You complained last time and you’ll be complaining soon. I thought I could make things slightly easier for you by not smoking today.” The way he says it, clearly amused by whatever he’s about to do, makes you narrow your eyes and stand in front of him, scrutinizing.

“You were vague in your texts, so I assume this isn’t our usual sort of meeting,” you say slowly, guarded.

“It isn’t.” He says it almost enthusiastically, pushing himself away from the car, and you wonder what could possibly make this man so happy. “We’re going shopping.”

You stare.

“No.”

“You need a suit for Saturday.” You’re certain that the bastard would grin if he could.

“I’m not paying for a new suit I’ll only wear once.” He has a point, but you’re not giving up without a fight. You need a moment to make your peace with having to spend money on this.

“I know,” Smith says, and his expression becomes serious. “That’s why I’ll be buying it.”

You blink.

“I don’t need _charity_ ,” you say, tone full of contained anger.

Smith shakes his head, raises a hand in a placating gesture that has the opposite effect.

“That’s not what it is,” he says, looking you in the eye. “At this point, you must know that that’s not how I do things.”

You don’t. Not really. There’s what you want to believe about Ray based on how he treats you, and there’s what you suspect about Smith because of his job, and nothing gives you any certainties about how he handles anything outside of the parentheses created by your time together.

You breathe in deeply. You’re the one that said men must use their heads. Right now, your pride can take a step back and wait for clarification.

“What is it, then?” you say, not looking away from him.

Smith sounds almost solemn as he says, “You’re only going to need that suit because you’re going to that dinner as a favor to me. I feel it’s my responsibility to buy it for you.”

That doesn't make you feel any less pissed.

“I agreed to go to that dinner," you remind him coldly. "I can buy my own suit.”

Smith sets his jaw and watches you, and the reluctance you read on his expression makes your anger subside enough for you to think again about what he said.

"That explanation was bullshit, wasn't it?" You smirk, accusing and confident. "You have another reason."

“I’ve already told you that I try not to lie to you," Smith says, still serious, except you think there's some of that earlier enthusiasm glinting in his eyes.

He didn't answer your question. He's good at using exact words and partial truths.

“You’re keeping something to yourself."

He huffs, but his shoulders relax. The hint of enthusiasm is gone, replaced by relief.

“I want to do something nice for you," he says simply. "I appreciate you going to that dinner with me, so buying the suit is the least I can do.”

It’s your turn to look at him with slightly narrowed eyes and try to figure him out. He could have argued with you a minute ago instead of only watching you expectantly. It’s like he wanted you to notice that he wasn’t being completely honest, that he was hoping you’d realize there were still some words under his tongue.

“Couldn’t you have said that outright?” you ask him, trying to understand.

He shrugs with one shoulder. “I didn’t know how you were going to take it.”

“You doing something nice for me?” you say flatly.

“Yes.” He licks his lips. “Niceness… hasn’t really been a feature of this arrangement.”

The only time you didn’t meet at your place or his, he went down on you in the toilet, and every single meeting has been almost a competition to see who can have the other moaning sooner.

He’s got a point.

“And what, you thought I’d panic?”

He raises an eyebrow and gives you a look that tells you that, yes, that’s exactly what he thought.

“Fair enough,” you say, with a slight tilt of your head. Without thinking, you reach for his tie’s knot and tap at it with a finger. “But we’ve already established that this isn’t a relationship and that it’ll end someday. I don’t have any reason to panic.”

Smith snorts.

“So what you’re saying is that you’d be running away if you had feelings for me?”

You make a face. “It sounded like that, didn’t it?”

He nods. He’s trying not to laugh and your fingers are still on his tie. You let them slide upwards to brush his neck and watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows.

You bring back your hand to your jacket’s pocket.

“I’ve already told you that I’m not the running away type,” you say matter-of-factly.

Amused, Smith says, “I want you to know that I’m remembering that and I’ll bring it up when you inevitably run away from something.”

The joke is that you’ve already escaped from something, but you’re not letting him know that. Not that it matters, really; he might have done a full background check on you when you were running around doing errands for Pearson and now he’s simply playing along with the joke out of consideration for your privacy.

“You’ll die waiting,” you say. If anybody talked to you like that, you’d call them cocky. Since you’re the one doing it, you call yourself self-assured.

Smith hums, unconvinced, and then lightly asks, “Can I buy you a suit, then?”

It’s a good thing you aren’t touching him anymore, because his tone and the way he looks at you, like he knows he won the argument and is looking forward to what’s coming, make you want to pull him towards you and kiss the smugness out of his smile.

“Yes, Ray, you can buy me a suit,” you say, content in the knowledge that things are fine between the two of you. “Just don’t tell me what it costs.”

“I can do that.” He signals for you to get into the car and soon you’re on your way.

You turn in your seat to study him.

“You know, when you texted me earlier I thought you’d been kidnapped or something like that,” you admit, fully remembering the puzzlement at seeing his name on the screen.

Smith frowns slightly and briefly looks away from the road to let you see his bemusement, so you elaborate. “Because it’s Monday. I thought it was odd you were talking to me on a Monday.”

“Oh.” He nods in understanding. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t contact you if something happened to me.” The way he says it makes you turn towards the road again: like it’s a real possibility, like he’s thought about it, like he thinks you wouldn’t care if he was in danger. “You wouldn’t be able to do anything about it,” he adds, like an afterthought.

“Really? Considering I’m unrelated to your job, I think a kidnapper is more likely to let you contact me than Pearson if they wanted it to look like you’re fine,” you say lightly. You don’t like this conversation. You don’t like that it makes you feel the same way you felt when you saw those armed men at Ray’s two months ago: angry, anxious, and resigned.

He purses his lips. “I didn’t think of that. Would you be okay getting dragged into something of that sort?”

“Of course; it should earn me some more goodwill from your boss.” You aren’t sure whether or not you’re joking.

Smith presses his lips tightly, suppressing a smile. “You have so much goodwill from him that he invited you over for dinner, remember?”

You shake your head. “I was hoping for the sort of goodwill that lets me retire to some island in the Caribbean.”

“That sounds good.” His expression softens. “I’m sure you might get that if you tell him you’re taking me with you.”

“I can do that.” You can also imagine it. “We’ll work on being less pathetic under the sun, while having drinks with little umbrellas in them.” It’s a very nice mental picture.

Smith's expression slowly becomes tired. “If I ever get kidnapped…” he starts quietly, ruining the tenuous calm you’d finally achieved. “I think I’ll say something about getting dinner at McDonald’s, or coffee at Starbucks.”

Despite yourself, you laugh at the idea. It might simply be that your messy emotions are trying to find an outlet.

Ray smiles when you laugh and changes the subject, keeping the conversation away from anything serious for the rest of the drive.

You feel underdressed when you walk into the store, but it’s hard to think about that for more than an instant when Smith walks around like he owns the place and starts looking at different suits, all of them black and all of them identical to each other. You have no idea what he’s looking for.

“Stop making that face,” he reprimands you when he puts the fifth suit back in its place.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you lie.

He gives you an unimpressed look.

“There are differences in materials, texture, cut…” He moves towards a different part of the store. “And price,” he finishes in a lower voice.

You smirk.

“What’s that about price I hear, Ray?” you say, unable to stop yourself from teasing him a bit.

“Not what you think,” he says distractedly, grabbing a new suit. “It has to be something nice that you also won’t hate me for getting for you.” He holds up the suit and alternates between looking at it and you. “It’s a gift, not misguided charity.”

“Is that why you’re not trying to have something tailor-made for me?” you say lightly.

“No, that’s because we don’t have enough time to get you a tailor-made suit,” he replies without missing a beat, sounding slightly regretful.

You narrow your eyes at him, unsure of how much of a joke that was. Instead of clarifying, he hands you the suit and guides you towards a changing room.

You take your time putting on the suit, careful with the material. The first thing you notice is that whatever it was that Smith meant when he talked about texture, he was right, because you like how the fabric feels against your skin as you pull up the trousers. The second thing you notice is that it’s comfortable, somehow, and that it fits you almost perfectly. You have to wonder how long Smith spent trying to figure out your measurements.

Smith didn’t hand you a shirt, so you wear the jacket over your t-shirt and the third thing you notice is how the garments clash. You smile at that and step out of the changing room to show Smith how the suit looks on you, certain that he won’t like the ensemble, but instead he looks you up and down critically, then certainly appreciative. You remember him seeing you in your cheap suit two months ago, how you’d thought in that moment that the fastest way to this man’s bed was probably to dress up somewhat well.

“Like what you see?” you ask him, like you did back then, your smile an invitation.

“You need a proper shirt and shoes, but yes,” he says, walking towards you and rubbing one of the jacket’s lapels between thumb and forefinger, “I do.”

“I’m still not wearing a tie for this,” you warn him.

“What about a bow tie?” he asks distractedly, his focus apparently centered on studying you.

“A bow tie?”

He nods.

“I can wear a bow tie,” you say after considering it for a moment.

“I have one you can borrow.” His fingers trail from the jacket to your chest and up your neck to your chin. He narrows his eyes, licks his lips and tentatively asks, “What will happen if I kindly suggest you shave for Saturday?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you have something against my beard, Ray?”

He presses his lips tightly and gives you a meaningful look, bringing his hand back to his side.

“I’m not taking criticism on facial hair from you,” you say. “Your beard’s too long.”

“Fine. I’ll shave if you shave,” he says nonchalantly.

You blink and furrow your brow. “Just like that?” That was certainly unexpected.

Smith takes a step back from you and scratches the side of his face as he says, “I only started growing a beard because people thought I looked too young.” He drops his hand. “I’m not attached to it, and at this point I’m probably old enough to get along fine if I shave.”

You stare, trying to imagine him without the beard, and fail at it. You decide that’s something to think about later and return to the changing room to get back into your own clothes.

“This one, then?” you ask Smith as you return to his side.

“If you’re fine with it, yes. Unless you want to go around looking for something else.” You’re sure that he’d love to spend an afternoon seeing you try on different types of formal clothes, but you aren’t invested enough in this arrangement to willingly wear dress trousers for longer than strictly necessary.

“I’d hate that,” you say simply.

Smith nods. “I thought you would.”

You leave to wait for him by the car when he goes to pay. When he joins you, handing you the suit and a white shirt, you once again unsuccessfully try to picture him without the beard.

Another thought comes to your mind.

“How old are you?” you ask him as he starts the car.

Smith gives you a confused look. “You don’t know?”

"We never talked about it." You make a vague gesture. "You're old enough for your job; that makes you old enough for me to sleep with you without me feeling like a creep.”

He concedes with a small tilt of his head. “I’m thirty-nine. What about you?”

“Forty-three.”

He frowns and turns to look at you for as long as he can before he has to pay attention to what he's doing again. “Really?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why do you sound surprised?”

Smith makes a face and says, “I thought you were fifty.”

“Fifty," you say flatly.

“Fifty," he repeats, not even trying to sound ashamed.

You stare.

“The beard doesn’t help you," he finally says.

"Unbelievable," you say, shaking your head. "Fifty."

"A very spry fifty year old," there's laughter in his voice, but it won't save him from your glare.

“Next time we’re alone, I’m making sure you know I’m not fifty," you mutter, leaning back in your seat.

“I’m looking forward to that.” The bastard smiles at that, open and relaxed, and it occurs to you that it's been a fairly common sight since the arrangement started. Back when you met, you didn't imagine that Ray could smile so much.

He drops you off at your place and waits until you've gone inside to drive away, taking the suit with him. He said you could change at his house on Saturday.

* * *

The Friday meeting is cancelled out of mutual accord, since you’ll be seeing each other the next day, and on Saturday morning you look at yourself in the mirror, curse, and proceed to shave.

You can’t remember the last time you saw your face like this. The man in the mirror looks less tired and definitely younger, like someone that hasn’t had any bones broken nor lessons about the world beaten into his head. The man in the mirror wouldn’t have propositioned Smith, and just for that you decide he’s more of a poor bastard than you.

Smith does a double take when he opens the door for you, and you wish you could take a picture of his face.

“Surprised?” you say, self-assured as you smile at him. “Don’t get used to it, I’m never doing it again.” You take off your shoes and head for Smith’s room to find your suit.

“I never thought you’d do it,” Smith says, sounding a bit choked.

“Two months and I can still surprise you, darling.” You laugh. “Excellent, that bodes well for us.”

You think Smith will tell you to forget the dinner and stay in when you get changed into the suit, the white shirt and black bow tie making it look the way it was meant to and leading to Smith biting his lower lip and breathing in deeply before telling you that you look good.

“You really like this, don’t you?” you ask him, flirty and inviting, moving towards him.

“I have clear tastes and you’re catering to me right now,” he says, his hands settling on your hips.

“I can tell.” You put your hands on his shoulders. “How old do I look now?”

He lets out a quick, surprised laugh. “You look your age.”

“I’ve been thinking…” You smirk. “Fletcher must be close to sixty, right? And you thought I looked fifty.” Ray’s eyes narrow slightly, like he can already tell where you’re going. “Does this mean you have a thing for older men? Is that why you agreed to my proposal?”

He gives you an unimpressed look and drops his hands. You bring one of yours to his face to cup his cheek and mock earnestly say, “Are you going to end things between us now that you know I’m not even five years older than you?”

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but doesn’t try to move away from you.

“It’s a valid question, Ray.” You pause to think for a moment. “How old is Pearson?”

He avoids your gaze as he quietly says, “Forty-nine.”

You do your best not to laugh at that. You don’t succeed.

“Wow, Ray. You _do_ like them older.”

“Michael looks younger than you,” he points out, meeting your eyes so you can know how unamused he is.

“First, you’re biased. Second, that doesn’t matter because he _is_ older anyway.” You move the hand you have on his shoulder to the back of his neck and lightly scratch his hair. “You’re not helping your case, Ray.”

“I’m sure you’ll use anything I say against me.”

“I will, yes.” You nod solemnly, slowly starting to smile smugly. “Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t even try to ask you if this was about daddy issues.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “In a way, you just did.”

“Not directly. That’s what matters.”

He raises an eyebrow and puts his hands on your hips again. His expression becomes serious and he says, “You know you didn’t have to shave, right? It was only a suggestion.”

“It wasn’t even that,” you say, moving away from him. “You hinted at the possibility of suggesting it.” He watches you cautiously. “So yes, Ray. I know I didn’t have to shave. I decided to do it, I did it, and I’m never doing it again unless I’m getting married.”

He relaxes at that. This is another thing you couldn’t have imagined when you met Ray, how easily he’d allow himself to relax around you, to banter and joke and generally exist around you without pressure. It’s like the moment he decided to sleep with you he also decided to lower any defenses he could afford to be without.

The drive to Pearson’s is calm, you spend it complaining about everything that’s on the radio. Then you get to your destination and it’s like a switch was flipped, changing your companion for the man that brought you here a bit over two months: serious, observant, wary and, now that you’re aware of it, a bit sad.

What’s also the same as it was back then is how happy to see you Pearson seems to be. Now that you know what he’d wanted the first time, you realize that he probably had been genuinely glad to meet you and that his wife had definitely been evaluating you.

Pearson shakes your hand, welcomes you back to his house and thanks you for your presence. Then Rosalind Pearson is almost smiling at you as she greets you, a glint in her eye and something in her tone telling you she knows more than you’d like about what you and Smith have been up to. Smith watches the exchange in silence, eyes hard and shoulders tense, something like hurt slipping into his eyes when he sets them on Pearson.

The house is exactly as you remember it, except that now it’s full of people in fancy clothes that probably cost more than what you make in a month. Smith seems to know many of them, but he doesn’t look comfortable when they greet him, his smile stiff and his facial expressions reduced to raising an eyebrow and setting his jaw. Nobody seems to think that’s odd, and you have to remember that this is the Smith you met at the pub, this is the Smith people usually deal with, one that doesn’t laugh and who is only here because his boss requested it.

Speaking of Pearson, you’d like to fight him if you got the chance. First because you still think it was cruel of him to try to set up Smith with you, second because he doesn’t seem to understand what’s Smith’s relationship with you, and third because whenever Smith looks at him he grows more serious, more like the man that set a gun on your desk and less like the one that absentmindedly draws patterns on your skin in the afterglow, less like the one that thinks you don’t notice when he wipes his fingers on the sheets after removing the glove he used to prepare you, less like the one that laughs and teases you as the two of you cook.

“How long until dinner?” you ask him when you catch him following Pearson with his eyes for the third time.

“At least twenty minutes,” he says, distracted.

You step into his line of sight, startling him. “Let’s get some air,” you say, your tone making it clear you won’t take no for an answer.

Time for the scrutinizing look: parted lips, narrowed eyes. You hold his gaze and wait, let him find whatever he’s looking for in your face.

“Follow me,” he says, leading you outside.

It’s not a surprise to see that Pearson has a nice garden. If you were one for plants, you think you’d like to take a look around.

“Was it that bad?” Smith asks, sounding almost concerned and a bit more like the man you’re used to dealing with. “We can leave if you want.”

You make a dismissive gesture with a hand. “I’m perfectly fine, Ray. You, meanwhile?” You shake your head. “You keep looking at Pearson. If I was truly here as your date, I’d be offended.”

He makes a face.

“Am I that obvious?”

“No, I’m just paying attention to you.” You hesitate before adding, “You could have simply not told me about this invitation, or asked me not to come, but here I am. I have to assume you wanted me here for some reason, and I’m figuring out what it is.”

He looks away from you and resignedly says, “I needed a distraction.” He sighs. “Usually I’m working during these dinners. I have to be alert, make sure Michael and Rosalind are safe, keep an eye on everyone.” He looks back at you. “I’m good at my job. I don’t let my emotions get in the way.” He glances at the building. “I’m not working tonight and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

That makes sense. Out of respect, you won’t ask him if it’s the full truth.

“So you wanted me here to keep your mind off Pearson.”

He nods.

“I can do that.”

“I’m sorry for being such a lousy date.” You think he means it.

You stand in front of him and decide to gamble.

“I have an idea.” Slowly, you bring a hand to his face and touch his forehead with your fingertips. When he doesn’t move away, you brush his skin, trailing down to his cheek and settling there as you say, “We’re going to pretend this is really a date. You’re going to pay attention to me, we’ll get drinks and talk to people, and we’re going to make up stories about how we met that will have everyone laughing. Deal?” You bring your hand to your side again.

“Deal,” Ray says, his expression softer. The line of his shoulders isn’t tense anymore.

“Shall we return?” you ask, mock solemn.

“We shall,” Ray says in a matching tone, resting a hand on the small of your back to guide you towards the house.

You think your idea was a success. Ray smiles and laughs, speaks of you warmly to everyone you meet, and his eyes return to you every time they start wandering in Pearson’s direction. You even have fun, despite how many of these people make you want to set things on fire.

Ray’s still smiling on the drive back to his house.

“You look content,” you tell him as you follow him to his room to get your clothes.

“I had fun,” he says simply, dropping his bow tie on the nightstand. “You’re a very good distraction.”

“You’re not the only one here that’s a catch, Ray,” you tease, but the effect is ruined when you yawn.

Smith looks at you somewhat anxiously and slowly says, “If you don’t want to drive in the dark…” He looks at the window and then back at you.

You look from him to his bed and think of how long it’ll take you to get home. You shouldn’t stay, you’ve always known it’s a bad idea. You have a clear list of reasons why you shouldn't stay, why you shouldn't let Smith occupy even a single additional minute of your life, why you'll be lost the moment you spend the night.

You're tired and the bed is right there.

“Do you have anything I can borrow for bed?”

Smith looks relieved and goes to get you some pyjamas and a packaged toothbrush, and then the two of you are getting ready to sleep like you're used to it, like it's something you've done so many times that it's not even worth thinking about it now. You don’t even hesitate to get into bed with him instead of asking him about a spare room or the couch.

“It feels odd to sleep with you in the literal sense,” you admit as he turns off the light. “Like we forgot a whole act in a play.”

He lets out a short sound of amusement.

“We can do something about that in the morning. I’m tired now.” He shifts and throws his arm over you, because apparently he’s committed to his starfish performance.

“Yeah, me too,” you say into the pillow. Tired enough that you don’t even think of shaking off Ray’s arm, so you fall asleep with its weight on your back.

* * *

Waking up happens slowly, your awareness returning to you like you have all the time in the world to enjoy where you’re in, and you’re happy to let it be like that: Ray’s bed is soft and comfortable, the sun slips through the curtains and tells you the day has started, and Ray himself is warm next to you. There’s nothing else you need right now.

Ray’s lying on his side, facing you, his arm occupying the space between the two of you, his hair messy and no tension in the lines of his face, and you’re free to study the angle of his nose, the curve of his ear and the line of his neck, to smile to yourself because you’ve had plenty of chances to do so and you might yet get to have many more. You’d reach out to touch him if you didn’t think he might forget you slept there and try to fight you (it almost happened once, some weeks ago: he’d been dozing off and jumped when you’d tried to wake him up), and right now he needs the rest. Last night couldn’t have been easy for him.

You shift in the bed and look at the ceiling, enjoying the peace, your only awareness of the passing of time coming from the ticking of Ray’s wristwatch on his nightstand, its sound deafening in the morning’s silence.

“Good morning,” he mumbles after a while, barely comprehensible against his pillow. You turn your head to find he still has his eyes closed and that he’s doing a funny thing with his mouth, like he’s trying to remember how it’s supposed to work.

“Good morning, Ray,” you say quietly.

He blinks and buries his face in the pillow. “Give me a moment and we can make breakfast,” he says.

“Take your time. It’s a nice morning.” You look at the ceiling again and entertain yourself thinking about the upcoming week until Ray manages to drag himself out of bed. “Are you always this graceful when you get up?” you ask him as he puts on his glasses.

“Only when I don’t sleep enough,” he says matter-of-factly, already sounding like the Ray you’re used to.

“Do you ever get to sleep enough?”

He sighs and doesn’t answer. That’s certainly concerning, but his sleeping habits are none of your business, so you push them out of your mind.

You sit up and put on your glasses, then get out of bed and wait for him to be done showering and dressing so you can do the same. You can’t help but laugh when you see that he even left you a package of new underwear in the bathroom. Of course Raymond Smith has spares of everything in case someone stays over. Maybe you should bring some of your clothes so he won’t have to suffer seeing you wearing the same ones from the previous day the next time you spend the night.

You make your way to the kitchen and find him boiling water and measuring ingredients for what you think are pancakes.

“I never took you for someone that would like a sweet breakfast,” you say, eyeing the sugar and flour.

“It’s Sunday,” he says, like that explains anything. Maybe it does, maybe the fact that the week is over and it’s a free day means he can do whatever he wants, forget about healthy eating and enjoy something sweet. He is, after all, wearing a polo shirt and casual trousers (you have to wonder if he owns some jeans).

“Do you put fruit on them?” you ask him, already looking for a knife for it.

He has strawberries and blueberries because he’s that sort of person, and you make yourself a cup of coffee and for him a cup of tea when the water boils.

He brings over the day’s newspaper and hands you part of it, and you eat breakfast in companionable silence, only breaking it to read headlines to each other that you think the other might want to take a proper look at later. It’s easy, like talking to him over dinner or after sex.

You finish eating, clear up the table and put the kitchen in order as he washes the dishes. At some point he got himself some proper gloves for this.

“I’ve been wondering,” you ask him as you watch him, “why not use a dishwasher?”

“Can’t you guess?” he asks, turning to give you a small secretive smile.

“You like to ensure they’re properly clean?” You could have sounded teasing, but you don’t see any point here. It’s just a detail about Ray and how he organizes his life.

“Got it in one,” he says, and keeps working.

“It’s not the full truth, is it?” you ask him after a minute, as he sets the plates to dry and starts on the cutlery, his expression oddly calm as he does so. He hums questioningly, so you explain, “It’s not just about cleanliness.” The secretive smile returns. “You find it relaxing, don’t you?”

“It’s something that has to be done, and it’s easy and mechanical,” he says, his eyes on his task. “You only need to be careful enough not to cut yourself with a knife or let something slip from your hands.”

That’s a yes, then.

You nod in understanding and leave him to it, choosing to go to brush your teeth. He doesn’t need you hovering.

Ray meets you in his room later, and both of you look at the unmade bed and at each other questioningly.

“We said something last night about sex in the morning, didn’t we?” Ray asks, pulling back the sheets.

“You don’t have to sound so excited,” you deadpan. “I can simply go home, you know?”

“No, no, I want to. I have to change the sheets anyway,” he says, shaking his head. “You promised to make sure I remembered you’re not fifty, and I _have_ been looking forward to that.” He looks you in the eye as he says that as if to dispel any doubts you might have. “I simply…” He makes a dismissive gesture towards the bed. “I don’t like to fuck in an unmade bed, but making it only to mess it up a few minutes later is a waste of effort.”

You hold back a smile at that because you aren’t sure he’ll know that you aren’t mocking him and reach for his wrist, pulling him towards you.

“If that’s what this is about, don’t worry,” you say in a low voice. His hands find your shoulders. “I don’t need the bed for that,” you whisper in his ear.

You move back enough to kiss him and let out a startled sound when his mouth finds yours first, then a pleased one when you realize he’s smiling. You reach towards the bed without looking and take hold of one of the sheets, unsuccessfully trying to pull it out of the bed without breaking the kiss.

“What are you doing?” Ray asks, bemused.

“I’m going to fuck you against that desk,” you say, tilting your head towards said piece of furniture, “and I need something to cover it with so you don’t have to clean it up later.”

He stares at you for one second before kissing you again, licking into your mouth, pressing himself against you, his hands trying to pull at your clothes, and you laugh in surprise at his enthusiasm, kissing him back just as passionately.

You have to disentangle yourselves to grab the sheet, which feels almost absurd in its practicality, and then you’re throwing it over the desk and kissing Ray again, pushing him against the desk.

“Fuck,” he mutters when you start unbuttoning his trousers.

“That’s the idea, yes,” you laugh against his neck, and it’s your turn to curse when he puts his hand over your crotch and slides it enough to make the friction drive you crazy. You wonder if he’d be such a tease with Pearson or if he’d go straight to business, and the old thought returns, that maybe he likes to imagine that the man that sleeps with him twice a week isn’t you.

Despite your attempts to distract yourself, you lose the rhythm of your movements, making Ray give you a curious look and call your name.

“What got into your head?” he asks, toying with the button of your trousers.

“Thoughts about what we’re doing,” you say, already pushing them away as you move to kiss Ray’s neck. “About how you’re free to imagine that I’m Pearson if that’s what you want to do.”

Ray stills against you and you freeze as well. His hands reach for your shoulders and slowly push you away.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks, his eyes fixed on yours and his voice cold.

You take a step back to let him get away from the desk, but he remains where he is, leaning against it. He holds onto the desk with both hands and waits for your answer.

There’s no getting out of this, the only solution was to never say anything at all, but you made the mistake of lowering your guard and once again being honest with Ray.

It’s not like this hasn’t been nagging at you from the start.

“You don’t?” you say seriously.

His hold on the desk tightens. “Who do you take me for?”

“Someone that’s in love with a man he can’t have.”

Ray’s eyes harden.

“A man that will never have me,” he grits out. “Do you know why that is?”

Because he seems to be straight. Because he’s in love with his wife. Because- No. He said that Pearson will never _have_ him, not _want_ him. They’re different things.

“No, Ray,” you say quietly. “I don’t.”

“Funny, you like to think you know so much about me.” He smiles, mocking and self-deprecating, and this time it’s your fault, not Pearson’s.

You ignore the jab and watch him, waiting for him to continue.

Ray scoffs and shakes his head, looking away from you for a second, before saying, “Michael is my boss.” The way he says Pearson’s name makes you feel sorry for Ray, his voice curling around the word like it’s embracing it, affection and care that he can never turn into actions finding a small outlet in the softness of his tone. “He knows how I feel about him." Ray’s shoulders drop and suddenly he looks exhausted. "He talked to me about it when he realized.”

So Mickey Pearson knows what he’s missing. For the first time, the fact that you get to have what he doesn’t makes you feel like you got kicked in the stomach.

“He told me that he respects me,” Ray continues, toneless and tired, “that he appreciates me, and that he thinks of me as a friend. That he would never do anything that jeopardized either our friendship or our working relationship.” He takes off his glasses and leaves them on the desk. “That even if he wasn’t a married man, he’d still be my boss, and being with me would be wrong. That he understood if I wanted to find a new job, and that he’d help me with it if I allowed it.”

There’s nothing you can say to that. There’s nothing you _should_ say to that, but Ray makes you want to take risks and stupid chances, he makes your heart race with dread and excitement, and you don’t think straight around him, so you find yourself asking, “What did you tell him?”

He smiles ruefully. “That I liked my job and that what I felt or didn’t feel for him wouldn’t interfere with it.” He exhales heavily. “He’s been hoping I find a partner since then, and he was ready to throw me at you when you appeared.” He laughs humorlessly and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. He grabs his glasses and puts them on. “Did you truly believe I thought of him when we were together?”

It’s your turn to laugh without humor. “Are you really asking me that? How was I supposed to know that you didn’t?”

“By this point, you should have a clearer idea of what I’m like.” He’s watching you carefully. It’s not the curious look he usually has around you, it’s the cold one from that first meeting, when he was assessing whether you were a threat or an asset. Friend or foe.

You’re nothing good to him right now, but at least you can be honest, as damning as that will be.

“You’re someone who likes to speak in half truths or with exact words. You’re someone that can’t simply say things because you’re always worried about a betrayal or about the eventual consequences of your words.” You huff. “The only times you seem to say things plainly are when you’re threatening someone.” And even then it’s veiled threats, it’s simply that aggression doesn’t need translation.

“Ah.” He turns his head to the side and licks his lips, breathing in deeply. “You could have simply said that you don’t trust me.”

“Don’t twist my words. I’m sure by this point you know that I trust you.” Against your common sense and better judgment, you do. “I’m here, aren’t I? Nobody knows I’m here. I believed you when you said you try not to lie to me." You've trusted him since the beginning. "The problem, Ray, is that I never know how much to read into what you say.” His actions, on the other hand, are always clear.

“Fine,” he grits out. “You want me to be clear? Then I’ll be clear.” He turns to look at you again. “I can’t imagine that you’re Michael because he told me that he would never touch me. I can’t imagine that you’re him because to do that I’d have to imagine that Michael didn't keep his word, and that’s not the person I love. I can’t imagine that you’re him because you touch me, and he never will.”

You tell yourself that that doesn’t hurt. You’ve never been good at lying to yourself.

“I see,” you say, taking a step back. It’s probably better if you leave.

Ray shakes his head. “No, you don’t,” he accuses. “You can’t, because I’m not finished.” His hands hold onto the desk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white, and despite the situation you want to reach for his hands and make them loosen their grip, ensure they don’t hurt. “Didn’t it occur to you that when you showed up here with your proposal I didn’t have to accept it? You think I couldn’t have gone and found somebody else to fuck in all this time?” He lets go of the desk and takes half a step towards you. “The reason I don’t imagine you’re Michael is that I want you. You said it yourself, remember? I’d looked at you. I thought you were attractive, and I wanted to sleep with you. And then I got what I wanted. I wouldn’t have changed anything.” He takes a shaky breath and says, “Was that clear enough or is something up to interpretation?”

You look at the floor for an instant and then back at Ray. “It was perfectly clear.”

“Good.”

He looks away first and leans back against the desk again. The sheet has started to slip from it.

You can’t help but feel relief at finding out that he’d always been aware of you during your encounters. You also can’t help but feel ashamed by that emotion, because you hurt Ray. You’re irrationally angry at him for never giving you any signs to dispel your worries, and then you’re angry at yourself for wanting them in the first place, when it was your idea to start this arrangement while fully knowing the risk associated to his feelings for Pearson. You don’t know what to say or do, but you know you should start with the basics.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, looking at Ray. When he meets your eyes again, you repeat your words.

“What are you apologizing for?” he asks, his tone bordering on mocking. “Making me feel bad?”

“No. I’m sorry because you’re right. At this point I have an idea of what you’re like.” You swallow and try to put your thoughts in order. “I should have trusted the good things I know about you. I didn’t and I fucked up.”

“You did,” he says, looking away from you again.

The conversation is probably over.

“Do you want me to go?” you ask, just in case.

“Yes,” he says, toneless.

“Okay.” You check that all your belongings are in your pockets and head for the door. You turn to look at him for the last time and say, “Goodbye, Ray.”

He was already looking at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he says, and then he stands up and starts removing the remaining sheet from the bed.

You know the way out.

You spend the drive home thinking about everything that happened, feeling angry at yourself and at him, relieved and ashamed, sorry for yourself and pitying Ray, and by the time you get to your flat all you want is a drink and maybe to hit something.

You text Ray as soon as you’ve locked the door and put the chain in place.

You only get a ‘Read’ notification.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the last scene of the next chapter was one of the first ones I wrote and contains one of my favorite paragraphs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expected this chapter to take longer, but two days after I posted chapter two I fell down, got some ugly scrapes on my knee and hands, and writing this fic distracts me and puts me in a good mood (piece of advice, everyone: ~~no se saquen la cresta corriendo~~ don't fall down). I'm fine, though!
> 
> First, the usual shout out to Sofia. Enjoy the chapter, dear, let me know what you think.
> 
> Second, many thanks to everyone that has been reading the story so far, special thanks to those that left kudos, and super extra special thanks to those that let me know your thoughts on it. Your interest in this fic also played a large role in how eager I was to have this chapter done soon.
> 
> Third, and most importantly: I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sunday isn’t easy. 

If you boiled what happened down to its essentials, you’d say that you and your fuckbuddy had a fight and ended things. It’s the sort of thing you’ll only vaguely remember a few years down the line, but right now it makes you want to drink yourself into oblivion. You refuse to do it; getting drunk is something that should be saved for relevant disasters, for those rare times in which you realize you've irrevocably ruined something that mattered, which only leaves you the option of trying to dull your senses and awareness in the hopes it'll make things less painful. You do, however, allow yourself a drink while you think about things, and by the time your glass is empty you don't know if you’re more angry at yourself or at Smith.

You should have known better. You had no way of knowing better, you can't spend every moment around him analyzing each word he says to get what he means.

But he's been good to you, hasn’t he? As much as he can. He hides the gun from you, he meets you in what consists of his idea of casual clothes, he knows you don't want anything to do with Pearson, he asks you about the boys...

Smith loves Pearson. How could he think you wouldn't expect him to fantasize about him? Especially when he presses his fingertips to your back and slowly draws lines on your skin, the sort of intimate gesture that lovers are so fond of and which tell you it's time to end things before somebody gets the wrong idea. You’d assumed they were his way of channeling his thoughts about the man he couldn’t have. What does it mean, that he touches you like that?

Smith doesn't love you, but he wants you.

Ray truly believed that you knew him well enough to trust his actions.

The course of your thoughts is jumbly, the same ideas coming up repeatedly in different shapes, mixing and twisting and making you yearn for a reason to break something.

Instead, you decide to clean up the kitchen, and once you’re done with that you move to the living room, then to the bedroom and the bathroom, and after that you’re going through the few belongings you keep here and deciding whether or not there’s something that should be thrown away.

By the end of the day, the flat is so clean that seeing it would be a turn on for Smith.

_Don't think of that._

Not thinking of him is far too difficult. You can’t look at the leftovers in the fridge without doing so.

You twist and turn in bed, barely sleep, and wake up before your alarm rings, eager as you are to try to punch away your emotions at the gym.

That’s difficult as well; you’re too tired to properly channel your anger, too tired to pretend that all you feel is said anger, and too sober not to notice every mistake you’re making as you hit the bag.

"Bad night, Coach?" Benny asks as he enters the gym, sounding like someone that slept enough and doesn't know what it's like to put all your hopes of oblivion into your ability to tire yourself out, only to realize you’re already too tired to accomplish that.

You turn around to greet him and remind him and the others of what they're supposed to be doing today, but you're stopped by his stunned expression. The rest of the boys look equally surprised, and you catch Ernie and Primetime exchanging puzzled looks, with Ernie pointing at his chin.

Ah, right. You shaved on Saturday, didn’t you? You shaved because you thought it'd put Raymond Smith in a good mood. You shaved because he implied he’d like to see how you’d look and you figured that, if you were already wearing a suit for him, you might as well go all in. You shaved and now your beard is doing its best to grow back, and remembering it makes your face start itching.

You really want to hit the bag again, but a coach has to coach, and your boys are waiting.

"What are you looking at?" you ask brusquely.

You could have done that better.

"You shaved," Jim says, gesturing towards his own face.

_No shit._

You bite your tongue and count to ten. Stating the obvious isn't something that deserves a sarcastic retort.

"I did," you say, trying to sound calm and levelheaded, the way you tell them they should be.

“Big date?” Ernie says. Primetime elbows him on the ribs, because clearly everyone can see that you’re not at your best right now.

Despite yourself, you chuckle at that. “Yeah, you could say so.” 

Some of them raise their eyebrows, others look at you with worry. None of them says anything, even though you’re sure they’re dying to ask, since apparently they’ve been concerned about your love life for a while. You aren’t really looking forward to telling them that you still don’t have a love life, just a badly thought out sex life that you managed to screw up anyway with your inability to keep your mouth shut.

Thank goodness it’s Monday. There’s enough to do around the gym to keep your mind busy, and all you have to do when an unwelcome thought crosses your mind - the image of Smith’s hands holding tightly onto the desk keeps coming back to you - is find something to fix, either a piece of equipment or someone’s posture.

Still, you can’t escape the look Mal gives you when you approach him.

“I’m not going to talk about it,” you say when he opens his mouth.

He shuts his mouth and looks at the floor.

“Can I say what I think, Coach?” he asks after a moment, tentatively glancing at you.

“Go ahead.”

He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before saying, “You were in a very good mood for a few weeks.” He hesitates. “We liked to see you like that.”

You exhale heavily.

“Believe me, Mal, I liked how things were during that time,” you say quietly.

"I hope it gets solved," he says, finally looking at you directly, giving you a sympathetic smile. He returns to what he was doing and your job once again takes your mind away from the memory of Smith tensing up against you before pushing you away.

After lunch you're too tired to stand. You lose the fight against yourself around five and tell the boys you're going home early, and once there you finally manage to fall asleep.

You wake up at four in the morning with a clear head and more thoughts you aren't happy about, but which you can't avoid considering. You told Smith that you weren't a coward, and you won't turn that statement into a lie by not facing some facts.

It's been a bit over two months since the night you propositioned Smith. The two of you have slept together twice a week since then. If you want to keep the numbers simple, that's approximately sixteen times you've had sex. Sixteen times you've undressed each other and allowed yourselves to exist in each other's space without any sort of armor or weapon. Sixteen times you've let go and trusted Smith not to hurt you. Sixteen times Ray has allowed you to mess up his hair, to leave him sweaty and dirty, to make him lose any semblance of control he might have had over himself. Sixteen instances of vulnerability, no matter how much the two of you tried to hide it under banter and hard and fast fucking.

Because, of course, there's everything else. There was Ray caressing your back, there was you making sure not to leave any marks on his skin, there was the two of you existing together before and after you fell into bed, and the unspoken promise before even starting that there'd be a next time.

You've been treating each other in a way that ensures a next time, but somehow you never thought that talking was something you needed to do to keep the arrangement working.

No wonder it all went to hell the moment words entered the picture.

If you ever see Ray again, you’ll tell him what you’ve just figured out and ensure that everything between the two of you is finally clear. It’s unlikely to happen, though, you don’t think he’d take kindly to you contacting him, and you don’t expect his pride to allow him to see what role he played in the lead up to the argument.

But, who knows? Maybe someday your paths will cross again and you’ll have a second to ask him if you can talk to him in private.

Honestly, you have to admit you'd like to see him again, if only to ensure that he doesn’t look so tired and pitiful anymore.

You find something to do until it’s time to go to work, and then your day properly begins. People start trickling in after a while, and it’s all the same as yesterday, find something to keep yourself busy, don’t let your mind wander, one of these days you’ll stop thinking about Raymond Smith’s knuckles turning white and you’ll be free.

“Someone came looking for you yesterday,” one of the older fighters, Mauricio, says. Mauricio’s on his way out from this life, but he keeps coming over to help and give his opinion on the boys’ technique, or to cover for you when you can’t be at the gym. You like him, you like the way he looks like he has quietly accepted whatever shit life has decided to throw at him before rebelling against it, and you like how he stops and listens before doing said rebelling. He’s a smart one, and you wish him all the best with whatever he decides to do when he properly retires. “We told him you’d gone home early and that he could call you, but he said he’d try again today.”

You don’t owe anything to anyone, as far as you remember, and people usually approach you after fights when it’s about your boys. It doesn’t sound worrying, though; it’s not the first time someone has come looking for you.

“Good, thanks.” You’re already putting the stranger into the mental list of things you might need to think about later. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but…” Mauricio hesitates and looks around before leaning towards you and saying, in a low voice, “Coach, are you in trouble?”

You frown, bewildered. “Not as far as I know. Did he imply something?”

“It wasn’t what he said, Coach. He was perfectly polite.” A suspicion appears at the back of your head. “Asked about you, said he’d come back today, wished us a good evening and left. Very calm, very pleasant. It was more about the…” He makes a vague gesture and stands very straight, a mix of perfect posture and careful nonchalance that turns your suspicion into a certainty. “He looked like someone that could fuck me up in every way, you know? One of those people that knows they’re in charge no matter where they go, so you better not mess with them.”

You swallow. Yes, you know the type. Your heart starts racing; is it dread or anticipation?

“What did he look like?” you ask, even though you know what the answer will be.

“About your height, blondish hair, beard, glasses…” He makes a face that shows his opinion on this ‘stranger’ better than any words. “A coat, a vest, a tie, very formal. Not the sort of person that comes here often.”

“Did he say his name?” You don’t know why you’re asking. You don’t need any more confirmation.

Mauricio shakes his head. “He said you knew him.”

You do. In the biblical sense at least; you aren't sure how much more you truly know about him. You don't even know if 'Raymond Smith' is his real name.

Just like that, the day's plans turn from "Ensuring Raymond Smith doesn't occupy your thoughts" to "Waiting for Raymond Smith to show up".

Because he _will_ show up, unless he gets hit by a car on his way here. Or shot.

Couldn't you have decided to fuck someone for whom getting shot wasn't a real daily risk? You decide not to think about that either.

The hours pass with no news until the afternoon. You're busy with Ernie, who suddenly looks at a spot behind you with an interesting mix of emotions on his face: surprise and concern, with a hint of anger.

You force yourself to relax before acknowledging the likely cause of that reaction.

"Good afternoon, Coach," Smith says before you get to turn around, leading to you needing an extra moment to deal with his words. That’s not the way he’s been greeting you for the past couple of months. It feels like there's a wall between yourselves and you already miss the many ways in which he can say your actual name.

If that's how he wants it, that's how it'll be.

You turn around, calm and nonchalant, half-smile already in place, and say, "Hello, Mr. Smith," ignoring how wrong the words feel on your tongue. It's like you're tripping over them, because your mouth knows his name better than your own and rebels against this childish effort to build up your defenses.

He twitches and _something_ crosses over his face, an emotion you can't catch in the millisecond it takes him to look impassive again, but you know enough to realize he's not comfortable. Maybe he's also realizing that the two of you are long past trying to put distance between yourselves in such crude ways.

Or maybe it's simply that a gym isn't a clean place and it's hard for him to be here. 

You remember standing outside of Pearson's house on Saturday and bringing a hand to Smith's face to soothe him, to let him know things were fine between the two of you. You'd do that now if you could, cup his cheek and ask him to talk in private, but everybody's watching and doing a poor job of pretending they aren't.

You can't imagine what possessed him to come to the gym, but you have to admire his determination to do it and then to do it again after he couldn't find you the first time. He could have gone to your flat instead of exposing himself here. He could have picked a place where you wouldn't be surrounded by people that make you feel safe, a place where you couldn’t easily make up an excuse to avoid him.

Yes, he’s been good to you in his own way.

"It's been a while." You smile privately, and some tension disappears from his shoulders.

"It feels that way, doesn't it?" he says, tentatively taking a step forward.

He doesn't do tentative, he does cautious. All of this is for you.

You gesture at Ernie to give you a moment and approach Smith, standing far enough from him that you won't forget yourself and try to touch him, to press a finger to his brow to remind him to relax.

"Are you here to fight?" you ask casually, gesturing towards the ring while looking at him intently to ensure he understands your question has a double meaning.

He presses his lips tightly and looks around, making a show of pretending to be interested in the place.

"No." He finally says. "I’m here to talk.” He smiles to himself and adds, “Only talk.”

You can’t help but let out a short, amused sound at that. Damn your weakness. Damn this man and how glad you are to see him.

“I knew we were calling it that,” you say, low enough that only Ray should be able to hear you, and he looks away from you and tries not to laugh, his jaw clenched and his lips pressed tightly.

You wonder what the scene looks like to all the onlookers.

“I’m not dressed for a fight,” he says, shaking his head like that will help him drop the amusement from the corners of his mouth.

“It sounds to me like you’re afraid of fighting me.” You cross your arms in front of your chest and look at him mock defiantly.

Now he actually laughs, short and disbelieving. He exhales heavily, tilts his head back slightly and, almost smirking, says, “Aren’t you confident?” with a glint in his eye that makes you want to grab him by the tie and kiss him.

“I’d have you on your knees in less than a minute.” Your expression matches his.

“Is that a promise, _Coach_?” This time, the title isn’t said to keep you away; if anything, it’s a dare for you to come closer, to give in to your wish to bury a hand in his hair and lick into his mouth, because he says it with the same hint of malice that’s in his voice when he presses himself to your back and whispers your name in your ear, his tone a promise of his own that soon he’ll have you saying _his_ name like no other word matters.

You swallow and pray your body hasn’t reacted to him. A corner of your mind distantly thinks about how all the stories were wrong: it turns out that the true name isn’t really necessary to end up in somebody’s thrall.

What a cunt. You should break his nose.

What a cunt. He must already know that you wouldn’t hurt him. Not on purpose, not out of a wish to make him suffer.

 _You_ have _hurt him_ , you remember. And he’s hurt you as well.

He must be here today because of that.

“It’s a promise if you want it to be,” you manage to say. It’s only been, what, two, three minutes since you started talking? Maybe less. People are still watching. “But right now I have work to do.” You take a step back. “You can wait in the office if you want.”

Thankfully, he agrees. If he’d decided to stay and watch you work you’re sure you’d have ended up being more focused on what he was doing than on your job.

Except that it doesn’t help you at all, because he’s occupied your thoughts since Sunday morning and your brain won’t stop with that now that it seems you’ll get to properly talk to him about your arrangement, and it all leads to you getting distracted for a split second in the ring and Jim hitting your nose.

That you ended up being the one with the broken nose would be funny if it didn’t hurt like a bitch.

Things turn chaotic after that. Jim looks horrified and won’t stop apologizing, some of the boys are yelling threats at him and it forces you to yell back that nobody’s hurting anybody over an accident, all the noise brings Ray out of the office and he also looks at you with unhidden concern on his face, and then he seems to remember that he’s actually the scariest bastard in the room and takes charge of the situation, leading you out of the ring to your office.

“What happened?” he asks as he brings over a chair for you. You distantly note that he took off his coat at some point and that the gun is nowhere in sight.

“Lost my focus for a second,” you say as you sit down. You don’t add that it’s his fault, because when he’s around you think with your dick instead of your head and your dick is shit at fighting.

The noises at the door make both of you look towards it, and you find far too many people looking in, trying to see how you’re doing but not daring to come closer.

“What are you doing here?” you say harshly. More loudly, you add, “Did I say you could stop what you were doing? Get back there!”

The only one that remains at the door is Jim.

“Sorry, Coach,” he says. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he adds quietly. He tentatively raises his hands and you notice that he’s holding your jacket.

“Come in,” you say, gesturing for him to approach you.

He does so cautiously, darting wary looks at Ray, who has taken enough steps to the side as to be standing right next to the wall.

You take your jacket from his hands, not minding the blood that’s getting on it, and leave it on the desk, a mess of cloth next to Ray’s neatly folded coat (under which you know there is a gun you refuse to think about).

“I’m fine, Jim. You think you’re the first one that's ever landed a hit on me?” You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He looks slightly more at ease with that, so you add, “Now get back there and train some more, because that punch was pitiful. I won’t even remember it when my nose stops bleeding.”

“Sorry, Coach.” He ducks his head. “Thanks, Coach.”

“ _Go_ ,” you say firmly, gesturing towards the door, and he does as ordered, still giving wary looks to Ray on his way out.

When you turn your attention back to Ray, you find him watching the door. At some point he rolled up his shirt’s sleeves, and if you weren't busy bleeding all over your clothes you'd take the time to appreciate it, how it shows enough to reveal strength, but hides plenty for you to imagine (to _remember_ ) what it's like to see the rest.

You don’t know what he’s thinking about, but after a couple of seconds he blinks and looks at you again.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” he asks.

You lean forward to let the blood fall onto the floor. “Box under the desk.”

You hear him drag it out and put it on the desk. It’s a big box.

“This is a lot.” He sounds impressed.

“There are a lot of boys and you never know what sort of mess they’ll make.”

He hums in thought and returns to you.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

“I think it stopped bleeding,” you mutter, tasting the blood at the back of your mouth.

“Let me judge for myself.” You almost dare to describe his tone as gentle.

You lift your head and let him check how serious the damage is with careful touches, using a steady voice to ask you to tell him where it hurts and if you have any trouble seeing, to instruct you to follow the movements of his finger with your eyes, and to tell you that he’s going to point his phone’s flashlight at your pupils, so don’t blink.

“It doesn’t seem to be serious,” he says as he starts cleaning your face, sounding relieved and maybe even thankful. You close your eyes and let him work, and once you think he’s done, you open your eyes. “You should see a doctor.” His fingertips are resting right below your ear. “I know a good one; I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to,” you say. “I’m sure Jim will be happy to take me.”

He chuckles at that. “They care about you, don’t they?”

“I think they do, yes,” you say fondly, despite yourself. “They’re good kids.”

“And you care about them as well.”

You frown. “Considering how we met, I thought you already knew that.”

“Today was a big reminder of everything.” He shrugs, noncommittally. “Especially of what they tried to do at the end to keep you safe.”

“Don’t remind me,” you groan. “I still have nightmares about it.”

He drops his hand to your shoulder and squeezes it before going to throw away everything he used. He grabs a wet wipe and starts cleaning your blood from his fingertips.

“I came here to talk to you about Sunday,” he says, his eyes on your face. Your own eyes are more interested in following the methodical movements of his hands as he removes the blood from his skin. “That is, if you’re willing to listen to me.”

That makes you look at his face. There’s tension in the line of his jaw and his eyes are serious.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. “I also wanted to talk about Sunday with you.” He frowns in confusion, so you add, “I realized some things after I left.”

“It looks like we’ll need to have a proper conversation.” A quick smile and he looks down at his hands again, inspecting them critically.

“Maybe after you’ve taken me to the doctor?”

“Sure.” He throws away the wet wipe and moves to stand in front of you again, reaching for your jacket and carefully folding it before putting it on top of his coat. “Before we talk…” he starts slowly, watching you with slightly narrowed eyes as if deciding whether or not you’ll want to hear what he wants to say. “I had all of Sunday to think about what happened and I owe you an apology.” He breathes in deeply. “I don’t really want our arrangement to end,” he admits, sounding almost ashamed.

“That makes two of us,” you say, your tone matching his own, and then you smile at him, flirty and inviting.

It makes him raise his eyebrows. “Really?” he deadpans, but still he brings his fingertips back to your face, tracing a line down your cheek.

“Have I told you before that you’re very attractive?” you say, grinning, tilting your head back and hoping he gets the hint. “I can’t help myself.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, exasperated, but then he’s leaning down and kissing you, slow and careful, only his lips moving against yours, his hand going from your cheek to your neck.

“I hope your nose heals quickly,” he whispers against your mouth.

“Maybe you could try to kiss it better,” you laugh against his lips, and go back to kissing him, because, well, it’s _nice_ and you’ve earned something good after the last couple of days you’ve had.

He stands between your legs and puts his other hand on your arm, a comforting weight that only makes you want to pull him closer, so you do, and he keeps kissing you like there’s time, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.

He’s the one that parts his lips first, and you’re the one that forgets your nose might be broken and ruins the moment by moving wrong and hissing when pain shoots through your face.

Ray moves away quickly, but his hand stays against your neck as he inspects your face, his thumb drawing circles on your skin. There’s an alarm blaring inside your head, telling you to stand up and put distance between the two of you before you start mistaking Ray’s general carefulness for affection, but what you like about being around Ray is the freedom to do as you please, so you let him finish his inspection before standing up and allowing him to get you to a doctor.

* * *

You weren't expecting an actual doctor. Or, well, not one with an office located in a decent part of London, a secretary, and normal people in the waiting room, but that's the person Ray takes you to.

There's a woman talking to the secretary that offers you a tight-lipped, nervous smile when she sees you and then disappears behind the door to one of three offices, and something in the way she inspects you before glancing at Ray makes you think she knows what Ray does for a living, making you wonder if the secretary knows as well, if everybody in the room does and is currently thinking of you in the same way they think of him.

 _She can’t possibly know_ , you tell yourself. How would she? How could anyone here know that the well-dressed man currently guiding you to a chair is one of the most dangerous people in the city? Yes, the nervous woman must have seen something that alarmed her, but there’s no reason to think it was anything but a reaction to your bloody clothes.

Ray goes to talk to the secretary as soon as you’ve sat down. Part of you rebels against him taking charge of the situation, you don't need him fussing over you like you're a sick brat, but you also like having Ray so concerned over your wellbeing, taking it as a sign that maybe things won't be a disaster when you finally get to talk.

Perhaps the fact that he kissed you in your office should count as a sign as well? It was an odd kiss. It was a _pointless_ kiss, to be precise, because neither of you was thinking about shagging at that moment, so what reason did you have for it?

You decide to put it on the list of things you don't really understand about your relationship with him, like the fact that you decided to save his life that one time, or how you keep pretending not to notice that he carries a gun under his coat.

Another woman, this one wearing a white coat that screams 'doctor', steps out of a different office from the one the nervous woman walked into and gestures for Ray to come in. He turns to you and signals for you to follow him.

You immediately like this doctor. She's cheerful in her professionalism, squints behind her glasses when she examines you and speaks softly but firmly. She does many of the things Ray already did back at the gym, sends you to get an X-ray, and when you return with the image much, much later, so much later that your nose doesn’t hurt anymore, she declares nothing’s broken and gives you painkillers.

Ray doesn't intervene during your conversations with the doctor, only nods when she gives instructions, as if taking mental note of them as well, and then says goodbye to her politely.

It all feels strangely normal. If at the beginning you'd thought that everyone in the place knew who Ray was, by the time you leave the building you have momentarily forgotten that there’s a gun under his coat.

"That was a nice place," you say as you get back into Ray's car.

Ray looks pleased, like his taste in medical attention is as important as his taste in clothes and furniture. You think about how the waiting room had been impeccably decorated and wonder if he picks his doctors based on the aesthetics of their offices. You wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. 

"Thanks for taking me there.” You look towards the street. “If I'd gone to the ER, I'd still be waiting." Or you’d have left already. Nothing hurts because it _was_ a pitiful punch that you’ll have to talk to Jim about.

“You’re welcome.” On the next red light, he turns to you and says, “It’s late. I can drive you back to the gym to get your car and…” He swallows. “It’s fine if you don’t want to talk at this hour.”

The light changes while you think of your answer. You don’t know why you bother trying, you always end up saying exactly what’s on your mind. "I’d rather you took me home with you.”

He snorts. “That could end up really badly if our talk turns into another fight.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Ray. I want to talk and see what happens. We either make up and I sleep with you again, or we decide this has to end and I ask you to let me sleep on the couch tonight.” You swallow. “We’re too old to have the sort of breakup that ends with me getting thrown out in the middle of the night.”

He laughs at that, amused and relieved, and gives you a quick look. “Let’s go home, then,” he says, smiling. “Just to be sure, you know I have a guest room, right? You wouldn’t need to sleep on the couch.”

“You won’t even protest my idea?”

“I _want_ to take you home and not fight again.” More quietly, he adds, “I already told you I don’t want our arrangement to end.”

You nod and turn to watch him. You like it when you have the chance to simply look at Ray, to notice new things about his face or the way his hands move; he’s pleasant to the eye and generally interesting, and something about his steadiness makes you feel free to not be the one keeping a cool head all the time.

The conversation turns towards dinner plans, whether to buy takeout or see if Ray has any leftovers or something that can be prepared quickly, and you agree on making a salad and eating whatever’s in his fridge. If it weren’t for the memory of his hands holding tightly onto the desk, you’d be able to fool yourself into thinking that everything’s fine with Ray.

Not true. You’re terrible at lying to yourself.

Your body knows what to do when you get to Ray’s house. You’re not thinking about your actions when you take off your shoes, when you go to wash your hands, when you go to the kitchen for cutlery and plates and start setting the places at one end of the table while you wait for him to join you. You know how to exist in Ray’s space.

He walks into the kitchen as you’re rummaging through his fridge.

“Here,” he says, handing you some clothes. “There’s blood on your jacket.”

A few minutes later you find yourself wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt and a blue sweater, and your own clothes are in Ray’s laundry basket. He says he’ll get them cleaned and return them to you next time he sees you.

“That’s optimistic,” you say, taking the reheated leftovers from the microwave and bringing them to the dining room.

“I’m allowed to hope for the best every once in a while, aren’t I?” he says, smiling slightly and looking at you softly, resignedly, because he knows what he wants but the outcome is in your hands.

You consider kissing him to let him know that, yes, both of you want the same thing, but decide against it. Dinner first, that’s how you’ve been doing things, and after that, of course, you have to clear up the table, wash the dishes, and put everything in order, so the topic of Sunday gets pushed out of your mind for over an hour. Then Ray, drying his hands with the dishtowel and not looking at you, asks, “Do you want a drink?”

You give yourself a moment to watch the way his fingers move as he folds the dishtowel and then accept his offer. You weren’t expecting him to bring out one of the expensive bottles.

“You think I have any other type?” he says after you’ve voiced that thought. He says it seriously, almost offended, and you believe he means what he’s implying until you notice the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You must have something to give to the people you hate,” you say, getting some coasters and heading for the living room.

"Maybe I refill the expensive bottles with the cheap stuff," he says, still serious, still on the verge of smiling. You think that the joke has gone on long enough and that it’s time he allowed himself to laugh, so you look at him with a raised eyebrow, smirking, and after a second Ray’s finally laughing and admitting that you’re right, he has drinks he saves for people he doesn’t like. “But you’re not one of them,” he says as he opens the bottle, smiling at you.

You sit next to each other on the couch, fill your glasses, and lean back.

You’re bringing the glass to your lips when Ray says, “I’m sorry,” so grave that he makes it sound like someone died.

You drink before clarifying, “About Sunday?”

“About what led to Sunday.” He drinks as well and continues. “After you left I started thinking...” He stares at the contents of his glass for a second. “You couldn’t have known. I _do_ talk like a fucking riddle sometimes and I _am_ in love with Michael. Thinking I fantasized about him…” He exhales heavily and takes a sip from his glass. “It was a reasonable assumption.”

_Wow._

“Wow.”

Ray turns to look at you, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

You shake your head dismissively and turn your face just enough to get a good look at him. “You’re a proud man, Ray. I didn’t think you’d reach that conclusion.”

He presses his lips tightly and averts his eyes. “You don’t get to where I am without acknowledging your mistakes and fixing them.”

You nod and wait.

After taking another sip, Ray continues. “I haven’t given you any reasons to trust my character. You don’t really know what I’m like.” Ray turns his entire body towards you, even resting a leg on the couch to face you more easily. “We saw each other four, maybe five times before we started sleeping together, and all of them were in the context of Michael’s business.” He drinks again. “I expected you to know far more about me than you could and it wasn’t fair.” His gaze settles on your hands, which are holding tightly onto your glass. “Sunday was… I feel like I brought it upon us.”

You drink, think about how you’ll say what you want to tell him, and then drink some more.

“I thought about that, you know?” It’s your turn to face him fully, one of your arms stretched over the couch’s back. “I was angry at you for not realizing that there were too many things I couldn’t have known, and then I realized that I never did anything to find out about them. I fucked up on Sunday.” He looks at your face again. "I… You don’t really know anything about me either." You laugh to yourself and take a sip of Scotch before finally voicing what’s been on your mind since this morning: "You know what I realized, Ray? You and I… We might not have feelings for each other, but this arrangement we have is almost a relationship."

He stares at you. He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He empties his glass.

"Fuck," he finally says. "We see each other twice a week for _dinner and sex_."

"And we both assume we have an established place in the other's life," you add, nodding.

"It's a relationship." He's watching you with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. "When did we start a relationship?"

You shrug, as surprised by everything as he is. Your only advantage is that you’ve had more hours to process everything. "Probably when I said I'd help you make dinner."

Ray takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "We're so bad at casual," he mutters.

"The worst," you say quietly. At a normal volume, you add, "I think our problem is that we kept trying to act like this was a casual thing when it obviously wasn't."

He puts on his glasses again and studies you, the line of his shoulders suddenly tense, his eyes hard and his lips pressed tightly. Slowly, he says, "I still don't have any feelings for you."

You almost laugh. "I know." He relaxes at that, so for good measure you add, "I don't have any feelings for you either, don’t worry.” You make a dismissive gesture with your hand and then breathe in deeply. “But you also aren't some guy I'm shagging tonight and never seeing again, are you?"

He shakes his head and refills his glass, gesturing with the bottle at you. You down your glass and let him refill it.

"Is anything going to change for us now?" he asks, frowning at his drink.

"I guess we'll have to talk about ourselves a bit more," you muse. "And maybe spend some more time on foreplay."

He looks you up and down and licks his lips. "We _do_ usually get straight to fucking, don't we?"

"Mhm." You bring the glass to your mouth and say, "It's some damn good fucking," before drinking.

Ray laughs and drinks as well, watching you intently. You wish he'd stop looking at you and kiss you, like you know he wants to.

You leave your glass on the table, lean back on the couch and, looking at Ray directly in the eyes, say, "Come here."

Ray, bastard that he is, takes a sip from his glass before slowly moving into your space. He's almost kneeling on the couch next to you, his glass is still on his left hand, and his right hand settles on the spot between your neck and your shoulder, grounding you to this moment.

“So… I guess we’ll take our time with each other every now and then?” he says and drinks again. You want to pull him towards you and lick what remains on his lips when he lowers the glass. “You won’t run away if I decide I want to kiss you for a while before taking you to my room?”

“How many times do I have to say I’m not the running away type?” you say in a low voice, suddenly very interested in his mouth.

He smirks. “Until I believe it.”

You shake your head, mock exasperated, and move to kiss the smirk off his face. He laughs against your mouth, a soft, content sound that almost distracts you from how his hand slides over your skin to settle on the nape of your neck, his fingertips brushing your hair. You’ve barely started to part your lips when he moves away to set his drink and glasses on the table, leaving you cold and wanting.

“You’re the worst,” you tell him when he turns towards you with a self-satisfied look on his face.

“And yet, you’re here today,” he says lightly, reaching for your glasses to leave them next to his own. Then he’s once again close to you, one of his hands sneaking under the sweater and the other brushing your forehead, following the lines of your frown. “Is it because you still want to prove you’re not fifty?”

You pull him towards you by the waist, then grab his thigh and lift it as best as you can, hoping he’ll get the hint instead of letting you make a fool of yourself.

He gets what you want, and soon he’s straddling you, slowly moving his hips back and forth to create enough friction to make you hard. His hands keep caressing your face, as if familiarizing themselves with it now that your beard’s still growing back.

“I’m not really in the mood to fuck you against a desk right now,” you say, your tone matching his own. Your hands, meanwhile, are very interested in mapping everything that exists between Ray’s knees and waist. “I’ve had enough violence for today.”

Ray narrows his eyes. “You think that’s violent?” His hands go down to your shoulders.

Just to make him stop looking at you like that, you press a finger against his arsehole, over his trousers, and he grinds against you, making you groan and move your hands up to push him towards you.

You kiss him slowly, mindful of the way his hands have sneaked under the sweater again, so careful that you don’t want them to halt their exploration of your body by rushing things, enjoying how the warmth of Ray’s hands feels through the shirt’s fabric.

When he tugs at the sweater to get you out of it, you remember that you’d been having something like a conversation.

“There’s always violence in sex,” you say as he leaves the sweater next to yourselves on the couch, “but you direct it so that it makes your partner feel good.” You start undoing his tie's knot. His hands rest on your shoulders. “A quick, hard thrust.” He grinds against you again, as if to agree with you. You loosen the tie enough to pull it over his head and drop it on top of the sweater. “A bite. Constant friction.” You start unbuttoning his vest.

One of Ray’s hands grabs you by the hair, barely pulling, and guides you towards throwing your head back so he can bring his lips to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to it. You close your eyes and move to his shirt when you’re done with the vest, thinking of putting your mouth below his collarbone and finally leaving a mark on him.

“I see your point,” he says against your skin before grazing it with his teeth. “No matter how slow and gentle you are, an orgasm is still…” He licks the spot his mouth had been on and moves to softly bite your earlobe. The hand he has in your hair has started carding through it.

You hum in agreement and continue unbuttoning his shirt as he kisses your neck. When you’re done, you put your hands on his shoulders and push at him lightly, wanting to see him.

Ray straightens his back to let you enjoy the view, the skin that’s visible under his unbuttoned shirt, the hungry look in his eyes. He looks like he’s begging to be fucked, and because that’s what you want as well, you help him remove his vest and shirt.

Of course he leaves them on the couch.

“What?” he says when he notices your amused expression.

“Nothing important.” You rest a hand on his back and pull him towards you again so you can press your smile to his neck. You don’t know if he shivers at your touch or because he’s cold, but just in case you put your other arm around him as well, to keep him warm. “Should we go to your room?” you whisper in his ear.

“Shower first,” he says. “You were at the gym the entire day and I was at work.”

“Shower first,” you agree, and kiss him below the ear just because you can.

Getting to the shower takes a small eternity, because you decide to kiss Ray against every flat surface you pass and he’s more than willing to go along with it. Showering takes forever as well, because now that you feel you’ve got permission for it, you don’t miss the chance to touch every inch of Ray’s skin, to find out if he’s ticklish, what does it look like when you bite his shoulder, where to caress to have him sighing into your mouth. He does the same in turn, teasing, brushing your skin with his fingertips so lightly that he leaves you burning for more, murmuring promises against your mouth and laughing at the sounds you make in reaction to them.

As you fall into bed, you remember how often you wondered if Pearson knew what he was missing. Now that you get to have Ray whispering in your ear, arching his back as you lick a water drop off his chest, tracing patterns on your skin with his fingers, you realize how much you'd been missing on as well.

He moans and throws his head back as you prepare him, clearly putting on a show for you, and you enjoy it so much that you decide it just won’t do when you see he turned to lie on his stomach as you took off the glove and put on the condom.

You kiss him between the shoulder blades and put a hand on his hip, pulling him towards you. “Turn around, Ray. I want to see you.” You’d meant for it to come out firmly; you think it might have sounded a bit like a plea.

He obeys, rolling into your arms and smiling up at you before putting a hand on the back of your neck and bringing you down for a dirty, eager kiss that you’re forced to interrupt so you can finally slip into him.

You quickly find your rhythm, and you do your best to pay attention to Ray’s face, trying to find clues that tell you whether or not he’s enjoying this as much as you are, but soon enough you’re lost in sensation, pleasure travelling through your body with every thrust, electricity at the points where Ray’s fingers dig into your back, Ray’s breath burning your shoulder, your neck, your mouth as he moans your name.

He manages to kiss you, barely a brush of his lips against yours before he lies back on the mattress and pushes you back by the shoulders. “Don’t stop,” he says when you start slowing down. “I want you to look at me.”

You do as he asks, straightening your back and lifting his hips to better thrust into him, and you get to admire every change in Ray’s expression as you move, his efforts to keep his eyes focused on your face, like he’s trying to ensure that you know he’s seeing you, saying your name so that there’s no doubt left in your mind that in this moment his attention, his every thought, is centered on you.

If you were a better person, you’d love him for it. Since you aren’t, you can only pity him for loving a man that refuses to have him, and having a man that refuses to love him.

At the very least, you can fuck him well.

“Touch yourself,” you ask him, feeling yourself close to tipping over the edge, and when he does it he comes undone so beautifully that you find yourself coming as well.

You drop to lie on your side next to him as you recover, your forehead pressed to his shoulder and an arm thrown over his chest. Ray covers his eyes with his forearm and relaxes against you. You figure that will last until he realizes he came all over himself, and then he’ll be pushing you off to go find some wet wipes or get into the shower.

It won’t do to have your post-sex bliss ruined by Ray’s need to feel clean.

“What are you doing?” Ray asks when you raise yourself on your elbow.

“Nothing. Stay there,” you say, and then you do your best to remove the sperm from his skin with your hand, wiping it on the sheet. “What?” you say in response to his questioning look. “You don’t like that and I want to rest before you drag me to the shower.”

He smiles guiltily at that. “Next time, I’ll keep some wet wipes by the bed.”

“Yes, please.” You settle next to him again and bring your fingers to the spot you bit earlier.

“Was that bite the violence we were talking about earlier?”

You snort. “Yeah, I think that was it.”

Ray hums in thought and doesn’t say anything else. You’re sure that if he was looking at you he’d have his eyes narrowed and his lips parted.

“That was odd for us, wasn’t it?” he says quietly after a while, when you’ve almost started to doze off. “All the...” He breathes in deeply. “All the niceness.”

You think about holding Ray to protect him from the cold, and of how long it took to get from his couch to the bed.

“It was new,” you agree. Ray shifts against you, tensing up, so you ask, “Do you regret it?”

He swallows before answering. “Isn’t it dangerous? Emotionally speaking?”

You raise yourself on your elbow to look at his face.

“Like this could lead to us getting so confused that we’ll get feelings?” You raise an eyebrow.

“I worry. It’s my job to think about potential disastrous outcomes,” he says matter-of-factly, even though he looks serious and concerned.

You try to imagine a future in which your feelings for Ray go beyond pity. You try to imagine yourself wanting Ray to occupy more time in your life and almost scoff at the idea.

“Ray, your job is to be the right-hand man to a drug lord. You could never fuck me well enough to make me forget that,” you say flatly. “And yes, I know you’re a catch,” you add, smiling enough for him to know you’re not trying to be mean. “As for you…” You shrug with one shoulder. “As great as I am, I don’t think I could ever fuck you well enough to make you forget Mickey Pearson.”

You really hope you didn’t just mess up everything again.

He blinks a couple of times and then starts laughing, covering his face with a hand.

“I hope your lads aren’t learning romance from you, _Coach_ ,” he teases.

The conversation moves to the topic of your boys’ romantic lives, and after that it’s time to shower, change the sheets, and once again ask Ray to lend you something to wear to bed. You make a mental note to bring some clothes the next time you come over.

You get into bed with him and resign yourself to falling asleep with the weight of Ray’s arm on your back. You didn’t bother with trying to push it off.

* * *

You aren’t sure what exactly happened that Tuesday night between Ray and you, but it doesn’t happen again. None of the following encounters takes as much time, and you always get the odd feeling that Ray’s holding back when he touches you, like he genuinely believes that one of you could fall for the other, so out of consideration you don’t point out that he always forgets himself and ends up drawings patterns on your skin in the afterglow, when he believes you’re too blissed out to notice what he’s doing.

Besides that, things between the two of you are as uncomplicated as they used to be. You have something of a schedule (Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, any holiday that isn't a family thing because those are for your lads), but you're both willing to fit into any open spots in the other's week. There’s talking over dinner, about life and plans and the little irrelevant things that fill your days. You rarely talk about Pearson, and when you do it’s never more than a quick update on how he’s doing. You spend the night at Ray’s instead of going home after fucking, but you still have to text him that you made it safely to your flat after you leave. You keep clothes in a drawer in his closet and he keeps throwing an arm over your back before falling asleep. You finally get to prove that you aren’t fifty, and the memory of Ray bent over his desk, moaning your name like he forgot every other word that exists, never fails to bring a smug smile to your face.

You think the boys might notice something at this rate, because you show up at the gym in an excellent mood whenever you spend the night with Ray or know that you’re meeting him in the afternoon, but they haven’t asked and you won’t tell them.

Your beard grows back.

Weeks pass. Months pass.

Life is good.

* * *

Setting up an additional meeting is as easy as texting the other one to come over, no more words needed, so when you see that Ray has texted you to _please_ come over, because he needs a distraction, you pick up the phone and call him. You're certain that he's been kidnapped or being held at gunpoint, and when he picks up you ready yourself to hear one of the sentences you agreed on to signal the need for help.

Instead, he says your name like it's a question.

"Ray?" you say back, confused by how perfectly fine he sounds. "You texted me," you add, and it comes out rather puzzled.

"Yeah. I'm free right now." He speaks just a bit more slowly than usual, like he's trying to figure out something. He must be narrowing his eyes.

You can hear him moving around, and you imagine him hanging his jacket and setting down his gun, readying himself for the evening.

"Oh." You blink and lick your lips. "You said you needed a distraction."

"Ah. _That_." He huffs, quick and harsh. "Last night Rosalind told Mickey she's pregnant, and today he spent the whole fucking day talking about how to baby proof his place." The way he talks, exasperated and exhausted, makes it easy for you to picture him in your head, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Then you process what he just said. No wonder he wants a distraction.

"I'll be there in forty minutes," you say, kicking off your sneakers and tugging down your trousers.

"You're getting slow," he teases. "How old did you say you were?"

"I'll remind you when I get there." You grab the fancy dress shirt off your wardrobe and throw it on the bed.

Ray laughs.

"I'm looking forward to that."

The moment he hangs up you finish taking off your clothes and get into the shower, and then you're putting on the outfit Ray got you for that dinner at Pearson’s. Or, well, part of it; you don't bother with the jacket and the bowtie. You _do_ bother with the shoes, the useless kind that you can't properly run in, but, since none of the clothes you're wearing right now is good for running or fighting, the shoes are just the cherry on top of the ode to impracticality that is your current look.

You don't have any of the expensive shit he likes to drink, but you think the rolled up sleeves and unbuttoned collar will make him feel magnanimous enough to forgive you for showing up with a bottle of bad Scotch.

When he opens the door to look at you, you can't help your smug smile. Ray looks you up and down, and you know he's thankful you left the jacket at home. You take the chance to study him, to look for any sign that he's about to crumble, but all you can see are signs that he wants to get you out of your clothes and do unspeakable things to you.

"Is it my birthday?" he finally asks, sounding rather breathless.

"Not that I know of," you say, walking into his place and heading for the kitchen to find whatever Ray decided to make for tonight.

There’s a pizza box on the table. "Wow, the news really did a number on you," you tell him, pointing at it.

"It was a long day," Ray says simply, taking the bottle from you and inspecting the label. He presses his lips into a thin line and sets it next to the box.

"I'm noticing." You sit on the kitchen table, ignoring his reproaching stare, and open the pizza box to take a slice.

You relish his horror for five seconds and then set the slice back in the box and jump down from the table to get a plate and napkin.

"I wouldn't ruin this shirt, Ray. Not with how much you like it."

"You're an asshole," he says, opening the bottle and taking a sip.

"You like this asshole," you say, handing him a plate and a napkin and taking the bottle from him. You wait until Ray's looking at you to take the bottle to your mouth, maintaining eye contact as you let the tip of your tongue touch the bottle's lip for an instant before actually drinking. It burns your mouth in all the wrong ways, but you don’t let it show.

Ray seems to know anyway, because he smirks and grabs the bottle, watching you as he takes a long drink, the challenge obvious.

"That's arguable," he says, and if he had anything to add it gets lost when you press your mouth to his. It turns out the Scotch burns just right if you taste it against Ray’s tongue.

“What’s not to like?” you say as you lean back.

You sit next to each other in the dining room and eat the pizza, passing the bottle back and forth until there’s nothing left in the box. You don’t really drink while eating, you only wet your lips and lick away the taste, and judging by how the bottle’s contents don’t seem to go down, you’d say Ray is doing the same.

After the plates have been washed and left to dry, Ray turns to you and takes a step back to study you again. You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the counter to wait.

“That's unfair,” he says, pointing at your arms.

You uncross your arms and put your hands in your pockets. “What, the shirt with the rolled up sleeves?” you say nonchalantly. “I thought you liked it.”

“I do. I also like those shoes and those trousers.” He gets into your space and toys with the top button of your shirt. “And you hate them. Why are you dressed like this?”

“I thought you were going to be moping.” You shrug with one shoulder. “I figured I’d wear something nice and let you fuck me until you felt better.”

Ray frowns and lets his hand drop. “Why would I have been moping?”

“Because your _beloved_ Mickey Pearson is going to be a dad? If you knew before that he’d never have eyes for you, this is the absolute confirmation of that.” You hope your pity doesn’t show on your face.

Ray blinks and narrows his eyes.

“What do you-” His eyes widen. “Oh. Heh.” He shakes his head and once again moves away from you. “I’m not in love with him anymore.”

_What?_

“What?”

He grabs the bottle from the kitchen counter and moves to the living room, sitting down on the couch.

“I’m not in love with Michael anymore. I’m over him.” He takes a drink of Scotch and leans back, legs spread and head held high. “You thought I was calling you over to fuck away my heartbreak?” he says with a teasing smile before drinking again.

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know why you can’t think of a reply to that. You don’t know why you’re suddenly afraid.

You swallow and smirk. “This whole thing started so you could fuck away your feelings, _darling_.” You join him in the living room. “You can’t blame me for assuming.” You take the bottle from his hands and drink as well, then throw yourself on the couch next to Ray and pass the bottle back to him.

“Aren’t you a sweetheart,” he laughs, and the only reason you let him get away with it is that he doesn’t sound like he’s mocking you. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.” He makes a face and brings the bottle to his mouth again. “Although maybe too tired of listening about all the changes that are coming because of that baby,” he says into it.

He’s not looking at you. He’s staring straight ahead, and you stay silent to see what else he’s going to say, but he sinks into his thoughts, his eyes distant and his mouth curved slightly downwards.

“What changes?” you ask when you think he might have forgotten you’re there, taking the bottle from him.

He turns to you and watches you drink. “Michael wants to retire again. This time for real.” He keeps his eyes on your lips after you’ve lowered the bottle. “He says you can’t raise a kid in that environment.”

“He’s got a point,” you say, matter-of-factly.

“He wants me to take over and give him a cut of the profits.” He reaches for your lips and brushes away the Scotch that’s on them with his thumb. “Michael says I’m the only one he trusts with his business.”

Oh. So at some point in the future, _Ray_ will be the scary drug lord.

“After everything that happened, I can see why,” you say as you watch him bring his thumb to his mouth and lick it.

He nods. You take another sip and hand the bottle back to him, but before he can drink you’re moving closer and kissing him, letting him find out what it’s like to taste the Scotch on your tongue. His mouth follows yours after you break the kiss, but you don’t take the invitation and instead lean back against the couch again.

Ray sighs. “I guess this is goodbye now, right?”

You throw your head back and close your eyes, reminding yourself that you always knew this would happen someday. “Sounds about right. I’m surprised you didn’t end it as soon as you realized you were over Pearson.”

“Why would I have done that?” he asks, and his tone borders on scandalized, forcing you to look at him. He looks like you just suggested he kill a puppy.

“Didn’t you say something about how it felt wrong to go looking for a partner while you were pining after Pearson? You needed someone to fuck until you got over him.”

Ray glares at you. “I didn’t say that.” It doesn’t have any effect.

“Maybe not with those words.” You look at him curiously. “So you weren’t planning to end it, even if you were over Pearson?”

“You’re a good…” He licks his lips and frowns in thought. “Lover? Lay? Fuckbuddy?” You snort, and he smiles at that. “What I felt or didn't feel for Michael never had anything to do with wanting you in my bed. We even argued about that once, remember?”

You smile guiltily at that. “Then why do you say it’s over now?”

It's his turn to look at you curiously.

"Aren't you the one that didn't want to give a bad example to your boys?"

"What does that have to do with us?" That doesn't sound right. There's not an 'us' here, there's you, Ray, and the arrangement that has you together in bed at least twice a week.

"I'm going to be in charge of Michael's business. That's not the sort of person you should associate with when you're trying to lead by example."

He has a point. You refuse to accept his point, because doing so would mean you can't keep waking up in Ray's room every Saturday.

You scoff. "I'm teaching them not to commit any crimes, so unless sodomy's illegal, I can sleep with anybody I want to."

"There are countries where it _is_ illegal, you know?" Ray says, trying and failing to hide his smirk by drinking. "I don't remember what the law says here," he adds, mock pensive.

"Aren't you funny?" you say, and steal back the Scotch. Frankly, even if the law was against it you’d find a way to sneak into Ray’s bed every week.

Ray laughs, and you have to admit he sounds like he's genuinely alright.

"So you're really over him," you say quietly.

"I am." He spreads his arms over the couch's back. "Finally."

You study him for a moment, his content smile, his relaxed posture, his evident relief, and you let go of the pity you felt for him, replacing it for genuine happiness for him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask.

He frowns. “About what?”

You gesture at him with the bottle as you say, “About not being in love with Pearson anymore.”

He twists his mouth and throws his head back.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up. It was… it felt like something so big and at the same time so small…” He lifts his head and takes the bottle from you. After drinking, he continues, “I was in love with him long enough for it to be a problem." His voice is soft and low and his gaze is fixed on some point in front of him. It reminds you of that first night, over seven months ago, when you saw him eating alone in the kitchen. “And then one day I realized I didn’t want to kiss him anymore, and when I started thinking about it I realized that I no longer felt like I needed him. He was just… Michael. My boss. My friend.” He drinks some more and doesn’t look at you. “I figured that there’d eventually be a chance to bring up the subject, but since it didn’t really affect things between us…” He makes a face. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it.”

You should have noticed earlier. It’s right there in the way he says Pearson’s name, how the word slides over his tongue and slips through his lips without any feelings curling around it. It’s just a word, like all the others.

“You’re right, though. It wouldn’t have changed anything.” You smile at him when he glances at you and decide to lighten the mood. “Since you aren’t pining anymore, I guess I can finally ask you this, Ray,” you say, mock seriously. "Why Pearson? Was it the accent?"

He blinks and then starts laughing, shaking his head.

“Do you really want to know?”

Yes, you do. For some reason, finding out what it was that Raymond Smith saw in Michael Pearson matters to you.

You purse your lips and shrug. “I’m curious.”

“Then I guess I can tell you.” Ray shifts, turning his body towards you, and smiles wistfully. His voice is steady as he speaks. "Imagine meeting a dangerous man. One that could kill you and who’d do it without even blinking if he wanted to." You think of Ray in the pub where you met him, sitting with his back to you, deigning you with enough of his attention for you to know you might still have a chance of making it out alive. "You talk to that man and discover he's actually a very normal person. With a sense of humor. With ambition and passion." Ray’s laughter still rings in your ears. He’s not laughing now; he’s looking at you like he's telling you the most important story the world has ever known, and you're the lucky soul that gets to hear it. "A fascinating man that looks at you like you matter." His eyes are fixed on you and nothing seems to exist outside of this room. "Who cares about what you think and makes you feel important when he turns his attention towards you." Shit. _Shit._ "And who, despite holding your life in his hands, has no desire to hurt you, and genuinely doesn't wish to ever have a reason for it." His smile changes into a fond one, and the world stops. "Wouldn't you fall in love too?"

You swallow and watch his face for any sign that all this is a terrible joke, that he realizes what he just said, but he simply looks at you expectantly. You force yourself to breathe normally, to keep yourself from revealing what you've just realized, to make the world start moving again. You don’t look at the door.

"When you put it that way," you say, your voice carefully even despite how you're once again moving towards him, entering his personal space to take the bottle from his hands, "then yes. I think I'd fall in love as well." Your fingers brush his skin for a second and then you're back at your side of the couch, your heartbeat speeding up like it always does around Ray, a mix of dread and excitement that you finally understand. "You were doomed from the start," you say bitterly before drinking.

You thought you were safe when you sat down for dinner with Ray that night, and now it turns out you’ve spent seven months under his thrall.

"Yes." He nods, satisfied. "That's _exactly_ how it was. I never stood a chance and I didn't realize how deep I was until I found myself looking for anyone who'd get him out of my mind."

That's something you know about, something you can easily think about.

The world starts moving again.

You give Ray a playfully insinuating look. "Like me?"

Ray shakes his head dismissively. "No. You were only a very attractive band-aid for my… _needs_ ," he says, pointing at his crotch.

"Then-" Realization makes your eyes widen, and alcohol makes you laugh, loud and hard. It might simply be that you’re so terrified by your epiphany that all that’s left for you to do is laugh at anything that gives you the chance to do so. "Fletcher? You dated _Fletcher_ to get over your boss?"

He makes a face and takes the bottle from you, entertains himself drinking while you try to get yourself to stop laughing.

"Not my best decision," he admits, looking away from you.

"Don't you say? Oh, Ray." You run a hand over your face. "Ray, Ray, _Ray_."

"That's enough," he warns, but there's no threat in his tone because this man, this dangerous and fascinating man, doesn't want to hurt you.

"I'm trying to understand _how_ you could think he was a good idea," you say, as if the last five minutes hadn't told you that the only thing more stupid than thinking with your dick is thinking with your heart.

"He was available, he was interested in me, he was clever and funny…" He twists his lips, as if deciding whether or not to continue, and then adds, "He was a good lay too."

"Really?" Now that's surprising. "Better than me?" Your pride will take a serious hit if it turns out that that cunt was better than you.

"That's impossible," Ray says, serious enough that you think he might mean it at some level. "Believe me, if I'd thought I could find someone better than you, I'd have ended this thing between us after getting over Michael."

"What a gentleman you are, _Raymond_ ," you deadpan. "All you're after is my body."

"That's what you offered, if I remember correctly." He moves a hand towards your face and cups your cheek, resting his thumb over your lips. "I rather like how you talk too, don't worry," he says lightly.

You open your mouth enough to be able to catch his thumb between your teeth and lick the tip of it, and your reward is that Ray seems to forget what else he was about to say, lost as he is in watching your mouth.

"Getting back on track…" He says, low and wanting, taking his hand from your face and putting it in his lap. "That's how it was with Fletcher."

You could stop the conversation here; change the subject. You could put something else in your mouth. You could drink some more.

"What were you hoping to achieve with him?" you ask instead, because there's _something_ here, and you don't believe that the only person Ray managed to find at that point in time was _Fletcher_. He must have picked him for a reason.

Ray looks straight ahead and buries a hand in his hair, blocking his face from view.

"I wanted to feel… well, wanted." He lowers his head. "I wanted Michael more than I'd ever wanted anyone ever before, and he wanted Rosalind, who wanted him back. Seeing them together…" He drops his hand and rests his elbows on his knees. “I was envious.” He tilts his head just enough for you to see his self-pitying smirk. “Not jealous. Envious. I wanted... Fletcher wanted me and that was… it was good.” He interlocks his fingers and looks down again. You want to kiss him. “I’m not proud of myself for that." He breathes in deeply and breathes out slowly. You want to leave. “I wanted someone to- Someone who’d love me like I loved Michael. Like Michael and Rosalind loved each other.” He laughs once, quick and sharp and so pained that you almost reach for him. “I don’t need you to tell me that looking for that with Fletcher was an exercise in frustration.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Because if you’d opened your mouth you might have ended up saying something like ‘ _I think I could love you like that_ ,’ and that’s cheesy and stupid and not what Ray needs right now. You’re not even sure that Ray is the sort of trouble _you_ need in your life.

He once again tilts his head, this time enough for you to see his skeptic look.

“We’re talking feelings, Ray.” You breathe in deeply and exhale heavily. “I’ll tease you forever for shagging Fletcher, but I won’t mock you for having feelings.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a sad smile, and he turns his face back to the floor.

“What now?” you ask, and you despise yourself for having second intentions. “Are you going to go out and find an actual partner?”

You don’t know what you want him to say. Do you want him to be emotionally available, so you can take the risk and love him the way he wants to be loved? Wouldn’t it be easier if he wanted to stay single, giving you the chance to rip out these feelings from your chest and go back to the easy routine you and Ray had?

“I’m fine for now. I’m _free_ ,” he says, finally sitting up. He looks at you directly. “Do you know what it’s like not to wake up needing someone that will never need you in the same way?”

Up until this morning, you did.

“Yes.”

“It’s great, isn’t it? No longing. No wanting.” He actually grins at that. “I want to enjoy this.”

“And what if someone shows up and tries to sweep you off your feet?” you ask, just in case you make a decision regarding yourself.

Ray laughs and takes the bottle from your hands. You’d forgotten you had it.

“Not interested, thanks.” He takes a sip. “Even if I’m over Michael, there are other things I have to sort out.” He licks his lips. “Some thoughts that have been going through my head for a while. Emotions to figure out.”

Thank goodness, you don’t have a chance with him.

Not that you ever did. You aren’t dangerous and fascinating, you’re only a man that’s made some bad decisions and who nowadays tries to keep some boys from making the same mistakes. The best you can say in your favor is that you might be brave enough to love Ray. The biggest argument against you is that you don’t know if you want to.

How can you be simultaneously relieved and hurt?

“What about you?” he asks, pointing at you and tilting his head just enough to look curious.

You frown. “What about me?”

“We’ve talked about my feelings, it’s time to talk about yours. Will you finally tell me why you’re so against falling in love? Who broke your heart, _Coach_?” You love the way he says that word, fondness wrapped around a promise to make you his. It’s almost as good as when he says your name. “Have you ever been in love?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You avert your gaze for a second. “Let’s say that I’ve dated a few girls and boys I’ve liked, and fucked plenty of both.” You mindlessly tap on your ring with a fingernail. “But if you must know, I was in love once.” You briefly smile at the memory. “For the time it lasted, it made me feel… Amazed.” You reach for the bottle, but when you’re holding it you decide you’ve had enough for the night and put it on the table. “They made me feel like the world stopped when we were together. Like nothing else existed beyond us.” That was ages ago, when you were young enough to think of love with such terms. It’s the reason you don’t have a better way to describe what it’s like to be next to Ray. It’s the reason you didn’t notice what was happening in time to stop it; you believed that at your age you wouldn’t be falling in love in the same way you did almost twenty years ago.

Ray hums pensively and stares at the bottle. “I never took you for a romantic,” he says softly.

“I have my moments.” You throw your head back and close your eyes.

There’s a clock ticking somewhere in the house, and you focus on the difference between its rhythm and that of your heart, let the minutes pass in silence as you figure out if there’s any harm in maintaining your arrangement with Ray. He wants sex. You want him. You also want to get over him.

You’d certainly miss Ray if you stopped seeing him now, and you don’t want to find out what it’s like to go around with a broken heart. Would it really be broken? Do you actually want to be with him beyond the hours you spend eating and shagging?

You can feel Ray shifting on the couch, and when you look at him you find him leaning back into it, his head turned towards you.

“Hi,” he whispers. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I can’t sleep yet,” you say. “You invited me over to distract you.”

“So the offer to fuck you into next week is still on the table?” The smirk on his face says he’ll be happy to do it.

“I was thinking of doing it on the bed instead of the table, but it’s up to you,” you say, sitting up enough to get a good look at his face. He’s not impressed by your attempt at humor. “If you still want to, of course.”

He rests his fingertips on your wrist and traces a path up your forearm, until he reaches the rolled up sleeve of this dress shirt you were sure you’d never wear again and that you'll never be able to get rid of now.

“It’s all I’ve been thinking of since I opened the door.” His voice is low and rough around the edges. He turns to his side to rest his free hand on your thigh.

“This really isn’t about Pearson becoming a dad, right?” you say, because there isn’t even a drop of dread in the way your heart races and you’re desperate for something that will bring it back to you to keep you safe from the longing that’s started to curl around your heart.

“No, it’s about how _good_ you look right now.” He smirks. “Did you look at yourself before coming over?”

“I was aiming for something you’d like,” you remind him.

“You succeeded.” His eyes soften. “But since you’re asking… No, it’s not about Michael. I’m actually happy for him and Rosalind, even though I think that kid will be spoiled rotten.” The hand he has on your arm travels upwards, towards your shoulder, and he moves closer. “It’s about how well those trousers fit you and how well I know what they’re covering.” He rests his hand on your neck. “It’s about how I want to unbutton this shirt and kiss my way down to your cock.”

Your mouth feels dry. You should say something.

“So… definitely not about Pearson.”

Wow. It’s like you’re trying to dissuade him from fucking you.

There’s an amused glint in his eye. “Like I said, it’s about how hot you look,” he looks at your mouth and licks his lips, “and how I really, really want to have you screaming my name.”

“I can do that,” you say, licking your lips, and Ray closes the distance between the two of you and kisses you. He’s warm against you and he tastes like bad Scotch. He pulls at your lower lip with his teeth when the hand he has on your thigh moves to your cock, making you let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a moan.

You grab him and pull him towards you until he gets the hint and straddles you, his hands now burying themselves in your hair, and something about this kiss reminds you of that Tuesday months ago, something in the way he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry even when he decides to unbutton your shirt, in how he hasn’t tried to get off yet despite how hard he is. You keep his pace even though you’re desperate for more, even though you need him inside you, around you, next to you. You keep his pace because it’s careful enough for you to lie to yourself for a second and pretend he loves you back.

 _Ray doesn’t love you._ Don’t forget that. Your last chance of getting out of this depends on you remembering that Ray doesn’t love you and getting over him. You won’t try to fool yourself: if Ray felt something for you, you’d be brave enough to stay in love with him. You’re not the running away type.

Despite how slow he is, how he doesn’t do anything beyond teasing you mercilessly with kisses and light touches, when he drags himself away from you to take you to his room you’re so turned on that you know you’ll come as soon as he touches you again.

“Then I should make it good,” he says when you tell him so, taking off his shirt and kissing a path down your chest to suck you off.

Somehow, you manage to last a few seconds.

You lie on your back on his unnecessarily big bed and close your eyes to enjoy the afterglow. You really like that mouth of his, the way it feels around your dick, how it looks when he smiles and how it moves when he speaks.

He calls your name, and when you open your eyes he asks you if you want to sleep now.

“You haven’t come yet,” you say, but he shakes his head and says he got off shortly after you did.

"You're a sight to behold,” he says, cupping your cheek. Lightly, he adds, “But you’re in your fifties. It’s understandable if you want to stop after coming once."

For that you reach for him and pull him down for a kiss, your tongue against his and your hand in his hair, messing it up as much as you can.

“You said you’d make me scream your name,” you murmur into his mouth, a warning in your voice.

“I did, didn’t I?” he says, amused, pressing his forehead to yours. You bring your hand from his hair to his jaw and trace his lips with your thumb before kissing him again, your palm on his neck, his pulse against your skin.

You let him go so he can get everything and then you spend an hour playing cards, waiting until both of you feel ready to continue, and in that time you almost forget that you love him.

Ray is careful with you, like he’s been every single other time you’ve done this, taking his time to prepare you, ignoring your demands for him to hurry up and fuck you already, telling you that if you want to get hurt you’re free to go and pick a fight in the street, but that he’s not going to cause you any sort of avoidable pain. All this time you’ve thought he spends so long on it just to mess with you, because he’s a cunt, but when he sinks easily into you you start wondering if maybe it’s just how Ray is, making sure that every possible precaution has been taken when it comes to the people that matter to him.

“You good?” he asks, resting a hand on your shoulder blade, grounding you, burning you, making your heart beat faster.

You’ll have to ask him when it was that he started caring about you.

“Yeah.”

It can wait until morning. _Everything_ can wait until morning, because Ray starts moving.

“I won’t even moan if you keep that pace,” you tell him, trying to turn your head to look at him reproachingly, but it comes out breathy enough to betray you. He starts going faster, harder, adjusting his movements when you tell him what you want, holding on to your hips, telling you how much he’d liked the way you looked today, how much he’d wanted to suck you off the moment he saw you, how he’s dying for you to go down on him the next time you dress like that, how he wants you and needs you.

One of his hands wraps around your cock and you can’t help but thrust into his touch, desperate for more, and before you know it you’re lost in the way it feels to be his, moaning his name, saying it louder because you don’t know if he can hear you over his own words, and there’s no point in saying anything if he won’t hear you say it.

After both of you have come, he lies down on his stomach next to you and throws an arm over your back. It's always the same thing after sex, this gesture that’s too shapeless to be a hug, in which too much skin is in contact for it to be casual, and that leaves him close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin, setting you on fire. You’ve grown used to it, just at you’ve grown used to falling asleep with the weight of his arm on your back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought this fic wouldn't have a playlist, and then I found myself humming Studio Killers' "Dirty Car" and Miranda!'s "Romix" while writing the previous chapter, and Soda Stereo's "Trátame Suavemente" and Mecano's "Tú" for this one (huge musical mood whiplash).
> 
> Like I mentioned at the end of chapter 2, the last scene of this chapter was one of the first things I wrote. I think it was the third thing I wrote in general, and the first _full_ scene I wrote down, which made building up to it slightly less daunting.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't supposed to take this long. I blame self-sabotage.
> 
> First: a shout out to Mars, who hasn't seen the movie and might never read this fic, but who is still kind enough to deal with me monologuing about where this story's going.
> 
> Second, a shout out to Auri, who _has_ seen the movie and, because of that, has had the (mis)fortune of having me drop into her DMs to throw ideas at her.
> 
> Third: hi, Sofia! Remember when you thought this wouldn't be longer than 22k? Yeah...
> 
> Fourth: to everyone that has commented so far, you have no idea how important your interest and enthusiasm for this story has been to me. Thank you so, so much.
> 
> Fifth, the usual: I hope you enjoy this chapter!

The bed is soft, there's a warm body next to you, the sun has yet to come out, and you're happy.

Then you remember where you are and who the person next to you is, and your good mood leaves you as you once again realize how amazingly fucked you are. In two senses.

Slowly, carefully so as not to disturb Ray, you turn to look at him. When he sleeps - when there aren't disaster scenarios running through his head, when he isn't constantly holding back every display of emotion that might give people a glimpse of who he really is - it’s easier to see why he'd thought he'd need the beard to be taken seriously. You could never think of him as looking innocent, but like this, he looks younger, softer, and not like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Ah, wonderful. Not even twelve hours in love and you've already turned into an insufferable prick. The boys would give you so much shit over this if they knew.

_The boys can never know about Ray._

You close your eyes and allow yourself to shift towards him, until your knee touches his and you can feel his warmth through the fabric of your pyjamas. You breathe slowly and deeply, your face relaxed in case he wakes up, and allow yourself a few seconds to panic.

You're in love. Over seven billion people in the world and you fell for this man. Couldn't you have picked someone safe?

An old memory resurfaces, a voice you haven’t allowed yourself to think about in years.

“ _You like danger, don't you?”_

You push away the thought before you can properly remember the smirk that had accompanied that sentence, the mischievous glint in a pair of brown eyes, the inviting gesture that had followed the words and that had led to you kissing that smirk, making everything feel so right that it had made you believe you had all the answers, because clearly the world had been created for you and him.

Old wounds start hurting again and you can almost feel bruises that at this point aren’t even a note in your medical record. It’s an old story, almost twenty years old at this point and not even an original one, so why are you allowing it to affect you? Why is your heartbeat speeding up?

It’s impossible to keep pretending to be asleep. You sit up on the bed and look down to your side to ensure you didn’t wake up Ray. You close your eyes and match his breathing, deep and even, until your heart slows down and your body remembers where you are right now. Then you get out of bed; since you’re already awake, you might as well use the toilet.

You catch sight of your reflection as you wash your hands and force yourself to stare into your own eyes.

The man in the mirror is old and tired, and he remembers perfectly well the lessons that drilled themselves into his bones as the various fractures healed. The man in the mirror should have known better than to proposition Ray, but what’s done is done and you don’t believe in self-pity. All you can do is move forward, and if you still have energy to feel sorry for yourself when everything is over you should direct it towards something productive.

What you also notice is that the man in the mirror is wearing a blue sweater that doesn’t belong to him. You’ve worn it so many times in the last five months that sometimes you forget it isn't yours, just as sometimes you forget that you’re only a guest in Ray’s life, that one day he’ll end the arrangement and say goodbye forever.

Now that you think about it, when did you start assuming that he’d be the one to end things?

You exhale heavily and stop yourself from wondering what other obvious signs you missed.

So you’re in love. What of it? You survived the previous instance and you'll survive this one. You only need to look at the facts and then decide the best course of action, and for now it’s clear that love won’t change the immediate future. Love won't change breakfast, and the weird dynamic you have with Ray, this mutual fondness that got out of control for you. Love won't change the danger he poses to the life you've built. Love is only a pesky emotion you need to get rid of before it can be turned against you.

When you return to the bedroom you find Ray turned towards the bathroom door, blinking owlishly in an attempt to get rid of the sleep that threatens to bring his eyelids down again.

"Good morning," he mumbles as you get back into bed, turning towards you.

"Good morning," you say quietly, lying down on your side next to him. You shiver at how cold your side of the bed has gone and curl slightly into yourself, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater to better cover your hands.

Ray's watching you with half-lidded eyes. "Don't do that, you'll stretch it," he chastises, but doesn't do anything else to stop you from ruining his sweater.

"It's freezing out there."

He frowns and closes his eyes. "Is it time to get up?" he says, barely above a whisper, like he's worried about waking up the sun.

You turn to check the time on your phone and then face him again. "We have a bit over an hour before your alarm rings."

"Good." He breathes in deeply and moves closer to you, finding your shoulder by touch because he hasn’t reopened his eyes and pushing you lightly to make you lie on your back. "Go back to sleep," he mumbles, throwing an arm over your chest, pressing himself to your side and driving away the cold.

You tell yourself you couldn't possibly fall asleep again, not when the past is busy trying to dig its way out of your bones, not when you have Ray - always beautiful, potentially terrible, everything you want - doing his best to help it with that simply by existing.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes. Every point of contact between you and Ray grounds you to this moment, and you tell the past to go away for now, to come back when you’re able to remember that there is a world outside of this room.

Ray’s even breathing lulls you back to sleep.

* * *

The next time you open your eyes, the sun's awake and Ray's hand is on your shoulder.

"Breakfast is ready," he says softly as you stare at him, trying to properly recover consciousness. He's standing next to you, wearing a robe over his pyjamas and looking perfectly alert. How long has he been awake? What time is it? You never heard the alarm.

You blink and he smiles, amused by who-knows-what, before lightly squeezing your shoulder and moving away from you as you reach for your phone. There are three minutes left before your alarm rings, so you turn it off.

Yawning, you sit up. There's a tray on the desk that Ray brings over and puts on your lap, and you spend what little lucidity you have in studying what’s on it while Ray takes off the robe, gets back under the covers to sit next to you, and grabs his own tray from his nightstand.

He made pancakes. He hasn’t made pancakes since _that_ morning five months ago. He also made coffee for you. That was nice of him, so when you try it you don’t tell him that he made it slightly too sweet for your taste. Not that it matters; since pancakes are sweet, you figure it’ll taste more bitter once you start eating.

Huh. Is Ray enough of a control freak to have taken that into consideration when he made your coffee?

“How much sugar did you put in this?” You raise the cup so he’ll know what you’re talking about.

He barely looks at you as he makes himself comfortable. “A spoonful.”

“Do you know how much sugar I usually take?”

A pause. “Half of that.”

Ah. So he _had_ thought about it.

You want to laugh at yourself. How could you ever believe that you wouldn’t fall for him?

“Don’t say anything,” he warns when he notices you looking from the tray to him with a smile on your face.

It takes you a moment to realize he thinks he’s the cause of your amusement, but once you do you decide to roll with it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say innocently, reaching for the cup of tea that’s also on your tray and handing it over to him. 

He makes a short sound of disbelief and starts eating, and now that he’s put the thought in your head, you can see that the gesture _is_ a bit funny, in an endearing way that makes you want to stay with him forever, to grow old with him pretending you don’t notice how you keep forgetting to leave (and when you die, you’ll say you could have sworn it had only been one night, one week, maybe one year, what do they mean when they say that you spent your life with Ray?).

It’s funny, how he makes you believe that what the two of you have is normal.

You do your best to eat in silence, but halfway through your plate you can’t take it anymore and you _have_ to teasingly say, “Raymond Smith, all of this is awfully domestic of you. Will you be giving me a key to your place soon?” just to remind yourself that yes, it’s funny, it’s all very funny.

He fixes an unimpressed look on you and brings you back to the moment, to the reality of this conversation you’ve started.

“Did you really feel like walking to the kitchen after last night?”

He’s got a point, but, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

You do your best to turn your body towards him without toppling the tray, and then keep watching him as you eat, waiting for him to tell you all his reasons. He knows you know he’s not being completely honest.

“Fine,” he huffs. “I wanted to do something nice for you, after what you did yesterday.”

You should talk to him about how you don’t mind him doing nice things for you; it can’t be healthy for yourselves to keep up this game in which he tries to hide his goodwill towards you because he thinks you’ll get the wrong idea from it.

Instead, you frown, pretending to think, and say, “Did I do something good yesterday?”

The unimpressed stare returns, but after a moment he sighs and says, “You thought I’d be moping and took it upon yourself to make me feel better. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Ray.” He doesn’t need to know how much you mean it. “After all, we’re something like friends.”

He nods and keeps eating, lost in thought, so you get back to finishing your own food.

“You know I’d do the same for you, right?” he asks as he sets his empty plate and cup on his tray.

“I’ve slept with you enough times to know exactly what you’d do, yes,” you say lightly, giving him an out in case he regrets starting a potentially emotional conversation. "But if you're offering for next time, I'm up for it."

“Don’t be like this,” he reproaches. “You know what I mean.”

You finish your coffee and put everything back on the tray, turning to Ray again to look at him seriously.

“I do." It makes your stomach do a weird thing. It also makes your heart do a weird thing. Both weird things feel a lot like a freefall, and what scares you is that a part of you believes that Ray might catch you. "And yes, I know you’d do the same for me.”

"I’m being honest," he says, looking straight at you, almost solemn in his intent to make sure you understand what he's saying.

"I know." You point at the tray, at what remains of this breakfast that he had to wake up early to prepare and that he then brought to you to give you more time to rest. "You care about me."

His mouth curves in amusement, and his eyes are soft again, like they were last night shortly before he kissed you.

"What gave me away?" he asks, getting up to set the trays on his desk.

_You told Pearson that I didn't want to have anything to do with his business. You knew that I wouldn't be happy to be let go while my boys suffered the consequences of what they did. You keep hiding your gun from view when we’re together, like what I need to feel safe around you has anything to do with what you do instead of with who you are._

"All the cooking was a dead giveaway." He agrees with a quick tilt of his head. "The asking me to text you when I got home." He returns to the bed. "And, of course,” you smirk, “all the time you spend preparing me before fucking me."

Ray laughs and gets under the covers, lying down on his back next to you.

"That's just to mess with you," he says, sounding like he means it. You want to believe you know him well enough to understand that he doesn't.

You raise an eyebrow and he looks up at you like he has no idea why you're doubting his words.

"Don't lie to me, Ray," you say smugly, putting a hand on his chest and leaning down to have your face close to his. “You have this habit of taking care of the people that matter to you.” You love him for it. It’s the reason you feel safe around him, despite how you know you shouldn’t.

It’s hard not to kiss him now, when he’s looking at you in the eye, surprised, and puts a hand over the one you have on his chest, but you manage. You bend your fingers and let them catch on the fabric of his pyjamas.

He licks his lips and schools his expression. “You care about me too,” he says simply, probably unable to imagine how wrong and how right that statement is.

"Unfortunately, I do," you say, mock resigned, and take your hand from his chest to lie on your side next to him. “What gave me away?”

“Besides yesterday?” There’s amusement in his voice. You like that he seems to have fun when he’s with you.

“Obviously.”

He turns to lie on his side as well, facing you. “You went down on me on the first night without expecting me to return the favor because you said I looked like I needed it.” He sounds almost accusing when he says it, but his eyes reveal his fondness.

“You _did_ need it,” you tease.

“I did,” he says, nodding. Then he smiles, private and pleased. “That was a very good night.”

You swallow, remembering what it had been like to gamble and hope he’d take the offer. You remember him leaning back in his chair, his eyes unfocused and his expression appreciative.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it." Your smile matches his, but as you keep remembering that night your mouth twists into a grimace. "You must know I didn’t do it out of altruism."

“What a surprise,” he deadpans. “So you weren’t on a noble quest to give orgasms to lonely men?” The corner of his mouth twitches, betraying his humor, and it almost makes you relax. Almost.

It sounds like he understood everything back then, but you won’t risk it. You have to spell it out, just in case, because you don’t want any bit of fondness he might feel for you to be based on a mistaken view of your character.

“I only wanted to see if I could make Mr. Right-Hand Man Of A Drug Lord come undone.” You say it like it doesn’t matter. You say it like you hadn’t known back then that it was a bad idea. You say it like you aren’t now aware of how much worse things got for you because of your lack of foresight.

Ray snorts and caresses your forehead with his fingertips.

“I figured as much. Why do you think I was so intent on seeing you again? Just to reciprocate?” He puts his hand under your jaw and watches you intently. “I wasn’t going to let you get ahead of me.”

You raise an eyebrow and rest your hand on his chest again. “And you still think that I blew you because I cared about you?”

You push him lightly enough to guide him towards lying on his back, and raise yourself to look down at him.

“Yes,” he says as you push back the covers, “because I thought you were going to use your hands.” You straddle his hips as he continues, “You could have offered to fuck me.” You lean over him and put your hands next to his head, caging him beneath you, but he doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed on yours. “But you used your mouth.” He rests his hands on your knees and slowly slides them upwards, until he’s holding you by the hips. “That’s a very personal way to get someone off.”

“You _were_ lonely, darling.” The endearment doesn’t feel right on your tongue, not when you’re far too aware of yourself to consider it meaningless.

Ray’s reaction to it is a soft scoff, and then he only looks up at you contentedly.

You lower yourself and bring your mouth to his ear, his arms going up to wrap themselves around you as you whisper, “Do you want to know a secret?” and lightly bite his earlobe.

He pushes up the sweater and the t-shirt you wear below it and presses his hands to the skin of your back. “Yes.” He draws odd patterns on you with his fingertips.

You smile and say, “It had been longer for me than it had been for you.”

He stops moving for a moment and then starts laughing, and you hide your face against his neck and laugh with him, enjoying how his body moves against yours when he’s happy.

“Are you serious?” he asks, lightly pushing at your shoulders to make you get up.

He’s still laughing when you sit up, straddling him again.

“Mhm.” You smile smugly at him.

“I never imagined,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’m a very good lay.” You roll your hips to remind him.

One of Ray’s hands goes to your thigh, while the other grabs you by the front of your sweater and pulls you down for a kiss.

Once again, your hands end up by his head, holding your weight.

When he breaks the kiss, he murmurs, “Yes, you are, _darling_.” It sounds better when he says it. You wonder what endearments he uses when he means it, and how much better they sound because of it. “So, how was it?” he asks, his hand cupping your cheek and his thumb caressing your lips. “What was it like to make Mr. Right-Hand Man Of A Drug Lord come undone?”

There’s a hint of sadness in his voice that makes you raise yourself enough to get a good look at his face, his hand dropping to his chest. His expression is neutral, yet the way he watches you unblinkingly makes you think you’re supposed to notice something, to realize that he’s afraid of scaring you away if he dares to say what he means.

You need to understand what he’s really asking, and in the end you decide that his question doesn’t matter, only the answer you’ll give him and how it’ll shape his opinion of you.

“It was thrilling,” you say, and watch the minimal tensing of his jaw, the flash of shame in his eyes. He'd let you do it. He'd allowed himself to be vulnerable around you, fully knowing why you wanted it, aware of what it meant to take you up on your offer.

Carefully, you move your hand to his face and caress it, your fingertips brushing his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, and you watch him relax under your touch before your hand settles below his ear.

You lower yourself to kiss his forehead, keeping your lips against his skin as you finally allow yourself to admit, “It was also a bit sad.” You raise your face again, needing him to see you when you say, “You _were_ lonely, Ray.” He studies you in silence and you let him draw his own conclusions, decide whether or not you’re the person he thought you were and if you deserve all the attention he’s given you so far.

“That night… why did you accept my dinner invitation?” he finally asks.

“Because I trusted both of us to know what we were doing, and because I thought it was a shame for a man like you to be lonely.” You let out a small laugh. “Well, I also thought I’d never forgive myself if I lost the chance of having you. You are very attractive, Raymond Smith." You look at him fondly when you say that, to remind him that even when it was only about sex you saw him as a person, that even when all you wanted was to feel like you had an advantage over him you’d been well on your way towards caring about him.

He smiles at that, small and open, and you hate how long it’ll take you to fall out of love with him.

“I’m glad you had dinner with me.”

You rest your hand on the mattress next to his head again. “Believe me, nobody’s happier than me about having had dinner with you that night.” You also hate that you mean it, because being around him has filled you with dread and excitement and it’s been years since you last felt so alive.

He raises himself enough to reach your face and kiss you, slow and careful, a kiss that could exist by itself and not as a prelude for something else. It reminds you of how he kissed you when Jim hit your nose, and you let yourself sink into it, enjoying his company.

You kiss him for an eternity, take your time tasting him and memorizing him, your fingers carding through his hair, your body pressed to his, the world forgotten, and he kisses you back just as leisurely, one of his hands high up your back as if to keep you close to him, the other sneaking under your clothes to trace patterns on your skin.

He tugs at the hem of your sweater, and you get the hint, sitting up to take it and the t-shirt off. You do it slowly, teasingly, hinting at what he’s already seen many times before, and he watches you with slightly narrowed eyes and parted lips, his hands settling on your hips, his thumbs drawing circles on them. He watches you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

You don't need or want that. You have no use for Ray's past, other than to wonder how it turned him into the man you know now. His sins and loves are his to carry, and the best you can do is hope for the future, hope that you won’t regret allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him.

If Ray wasn’t who he is, you’d hope to be everything he wanted now, tomorrow and for the rest of his life. Because Ray is still Mickey Pearson’s right-hand man, because Ray is about to take over Mickey Pearson’s business, because a future with Ray is impossible, you're happy that all he wants from you is to have your mouth on him.

* * *

It starts as a vague feeling of discomfort when Ray says goodbye to you in the morning. You hesitate at the threshold, wondering if you'd be giving yourself away if you kissed him before leaving. Ray seems to notice your momentary indecision; he blinks and watches you questioningly as you stand in front of him, and that’s what finally convinces you to walk away. It would be odd if you suddenly started showing affection outside of the bedroom, but still, not kissing him feels like a lie.

Not that kissing him would have been any better.

You spend the drive to the gym with a knot in your stomach that only puts you in a lousy mood.

Despite your best efforts, work isn’t a distraction. You manage to keep your mind on your tasks for as long as they last, but every time you get a second to think about something else you pick up the thread of your thoughts about Ray, and by the time you go home you know that what you’d thought of as something distant and vague, a problem for later, is in fact immediate: there’s no future with Ray. This morning was the last one.

You keep yourself from dwelling on that as you park the car and take the dress shoes from under the driver’s seat, where you’d left them in the morning. You don’t think about it as you go to your flat, put the shoes back in the closet, and ignore the empty hangers where the clothes you wore yesterday go (Ray had insisted on taking them to the dry cleaner for you, and you only agreed because you were sure he wouldn’t rest easy if he didn’t know who would be handling the clothes). You keep your mind away from it until you’ve finished making dinner and you’ve sat down to ponder how your Fridays and Sundays will change.

You exhale heavily and start eating. The fact is, you fell in love. You lowered your guard, forgot yourself, and let Ray pull you into his orbit, because you were fascinated by everything you got to see when _he_ lowered his guard and welcomed you into his space. You knew about his anger and his anxiousness before you touched him for the first time, but in the last seven months you learned about his humor, his sadness, and the gentleness he’s capable of. You learned about his tastes, the small things that annoy him (he once complained for fifteen minutes about how avocado wasn’t supposed to be put in _everything_ ), what helps him unwind, how to ground him when he gets carried away by stress and plans (you bring your hands to his face and trace his features slowly until he closes his eyes, stops frowning and relaxes his jaw, and then you ask him what he wants to do). You learned far more than you were supposed to and now you’re paying for it.

Time for damage control. You love Ray, and Ray doesn’t love you. He also doesn’t want a relationship right now. You were the one that insisted that there couldn’t be any feelings between you and Ray, so now that you’ve broken the terms of the arrangement, the right thing to do is to end it. Ray trusts you, and letting him think that he’s safe with you when you want more than what he’s willing to give you is a betrayal, not to mention the masochism involved. A life in which you have to restrain yourself when you kiss Ray, when you touch him, when you talk to him, a life in which you sit back to wait for him to end things between yourselves because you don't want to let him go, a life in which you might have to lie to him to keep his trust? That's not for you. You couldn't live with yourself like that.

There's nothing left to do but to end the arrangement. You wish there were guides on how to properly end something like what you have with Ray; you don’t think that sending him a ‘We need to talk’ text is the best idea, because knowing Ray he’ll come up with many disaster scenarios and one of them will definitely be that you developed feelings for him. You don’t think that showing up on Friday like usual and then bringing up the topic as soon as you reach his kitchen is the best idea, but it also sounds like the less harmful one, not counting Ray’s potential sexual frustration. How do people end relationships? Your only real breakup isn’t the sort of experience you’d like to repeat.

Despite yourself, you laugh when you think that.

You guess you’ll have to talk to him on Friday and come up with something better to say than a variation of ‘It’s not you, it’s me’, because that doesn’t really cover a problem like ‘I fell in love with you’, does it?

Who are you trying to fool? You’ll have to tell him the truth. You’ll have to look him in the eye and tell him that you love him, because you won’t let him think that you're another person that doesn't want him. You’ll have to let him know that when you’re with him the world stops and you momentarily forget everything life has taught you about its perils.

Will he want anything to do with you after that? Will he talk to you again?

The arrangement isn’t over yet and you’re already thinking about all the things you’ll miss about your friendship with Ray. You’ll miss reading the newspaper in companionable silence during breakfast. You’ll miss the way he smiles when he finishes washing the dishes. You’ll definitely miss his kitchen.

By the time you close your eyes and try to sleep, the vague discomfort has grown into regretful certainty: you should have kissed Ray goodbye this morning.

* * *

By the time your alarm rings on Friday morning, you’ve already been awake for forty minutes, and you’ve spent all of them mentally preparing yourself for what’s coming. You have to make it through the day, get to Ray’s house, and talk to him instead of allowing yourself to fall into the easy routine of cooking and talking. It’s going to be awful, but you’ll live, and maybe Ray will want to stay friends despite everything.

All your mental preparation goes to Hell after lunchtime, when Ernie’s phone rings. You see the change in his expression as he listens to the voice at the other end of the line, how his smile disappears and fear and worry cloud his face. You listen to him urgently say that he’s on his way, that he’ll be there in a second, and then he’s hanging up and telling you he has to go, that his dad’s in the hospital, that he’s sorry but he can’t be here.

You have to rush after Ernie and stop him from running out the door, tell him that he’s likely to get hit by a bus in the state he’s in, and ask him to give you a few minutes to get everything in order.

He blinks and looks at you, uncomprehending.

“I’m driving you to the hospital,” you say, resting a hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eye. “Give me a moment to call Mauricio and we can go, yes?”

He nods. “Thanks, Coach.”

You squeeze his shoulder and give him a quick, sympathetic smile. “Do you want me to tell them what’s happening?” You gesture towards Mal and Benny, who are standing just a few feet away, looking uncertain about whether or not to come closer. If Primetime and Jim were here now, you’re certain they’d be doing the same.

Ernie turns to look at Mal and Benny, who watch him questioningly.

“I’ll tell them,” he says quietly, and goes to talk to them while you call Mauricio and tell everybody else in the gym to keep at what they were doing.

You’re not surprised when Ernie returns followed by Mal and Benny. You take all of them to the hospital, Ernie in the backseat so he won’t stress you, Benny keeping him company, and Mal as your copilot, checking the roads and traffic on his phone. You find out that Ernie’s dad started complaining of chest pain and trouble breathing, and that everything points to a heart attack. Ernie’s voice is steady and flat as he says it, like he’s reading off a teleprompter, and you hate how powerless you are in this situation, how there’s nothing you can do besides getting him safely to the hospital, that the most you might be able to do is hug him when you get there.

Through the rearview mirror you see that Benny has put an arm around Ernie’s shoulders and is looking anywhere but at him, uncomfortable either with Ernie’s fear or with the physical contact, but either way, clearly unwilling to move. You told Ray once that these were good boys, and as you watch Benny squeeze Ernie’s shoulder in what seems to be an attempt at a reassuring gesture, you’re convinced once again of the truth of your words.

You leave the boys in front of the hospital and go to park the car. You take the chance to text Ray, letting him know that you won’t be able to go to dinner tonight, and after thinking about it for a moment, you add the reason.

He calls you. You look at his name on the screen and wonder what it means that he's doing it, tell the part of yourself that clings to every hint that Ray cares about you to shut up, because the worst thing that could happen would be for Ray to feel the same way as you.

"How's Ernie?" he asks when you pick up, voice even.

"Terrified," you say plainly.

There's a moment of silence. You picture Ray nodding to himself, a personal confirmation that he understands before continuing the conversation.

"How are you?" he asks, softer, gentler, because he _does_ care about you, remember? He's done so for a while.

You breathe in deeply. "Worried." You close your eyes. "Tired."

"Do you need anything?"

You need him to hang up and get out of your life.

"No thanks, I'm not ending up in your debt again." You tried to sound joking. It came out guarded.

"We're friends. This one can be free of charge." If he tried to sound joking, he also failed. It came out sad, resigned, distant.

It's better to cut that line of conversation before it leads to a place you might regret.

"Nothing you can do for now, Ray." You open your eyes and smile despite yourself, small and fond. "I'll text you if anything happens."

"Thank you," he says, and hangs up before you can ask him why he's thanking you for bringing other people's problems into his life.

You walk into the waiting room and sit next to your boys, who alternate between pacing and staring at the walls. Well, Benny and Mal do; Ernie sits far too still, with his phone in his hands, reading aloud the texts from his mother, who is inside with his father and the doctors.

His dad seems to be stable. They're running some tests. They're bringing some other doctor to take a look at him.

It turns out that there's a lot of waiting involved in heart attacks, unless it looks like you're just about to die. You hope there’s nothing but waiting for the rest of the day.

A couple of hours after you get to the hospital, Primetime and Jim show up, Ernie gets them up to date on his father’s condition, and they join the pacing and staring routine.

Good boys, all of them. Young and afraid and relying on you to keep your head in this situation, even though they’re not saying it, so you stay in your seat and only stand up to keep your legs from getting stiff, and you’re the one that goes with Ernie when some med student comes out to tell him how his father’s doing.

He’s stable, they did some procedure on him that should have cleared the problem in his heart and they’ll be moving him to a room soon. Ernie should be able to see him in a few hours.

You don’t know how long you’ve spent in that waiting room, but it’s only when you walk back to your chair that you realize your legs feel weak and you’re starving. The knot in your stomach had kept you from noticing the hunger. 

“You should all go home,” Ernie says after giving the news to the others. “I can wait alone now.”

Nobody looks very impressed with that. Primetime looks outright offended by the suggestion. Mal looks somewhat amused.

“Nice try,” Jim says, patting Ernie’s shoulder, “but we’re all staying.”

They all look exhausted, and you’d send them all home if you could, but there’s no chance of Ernie leaving before he gets to see with his own eyes that his father’s alright. As for the rest, well, they just said that they’re not going anywhere. You send everyone to grab something to eat, though, and promise to call them if anything happens while they’re out.

You text Ray the news while you wait, let him know that, yes, you’ll go home after Ernie has seen his father, and yes, you’ll drive carefully and let him know when you get to your flat.

The boys return in less than twenty minutes with a sandwich for you, one of those pre-packaged things that taste too much like plastic but which was probably the first thing they found. They also brought you some bottled water.

You leave the waiting room to eat, stand right outside the hospital and take a deep breath, fill your lungs with city air. It reeks of exhaustion, just like the air inside the waiting room, but at least it isn’t also full of fear and anxiousness.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Primetime approach you, and soon he’s standing next to you, hands in his pockets and concerned look directed at you.

“What are you doing here?” you ask him, gesturing at his face with the sandwich.

“Keeping you company, Coach.” He shrugs and you take a bite. “You’ve been with us the entire day, we’re not going to leave you to eat alone.”

“Ernie needs the company more than I do,” you say around a mouthful of stale, cold bread.

“He was the one that said one of us should come here with you.”

You smile at that.

“Thank you.”

It’s a testament to how long the day’s been that Primetime doesn’t say anything else after that, only watches the ambulances come and go until you’re ready to go back inside.

As promised, Ernie’s allowed to see his father after a couple of hours, and the rest of you leave once you’re certain he’ll be alright.

Before you go, Ernie hugs you and thanks you for getting him there so quickly, for the company and for the support, and you can’t help but feel powerless again. You did all you could, and it feels like nothing.

You tell that to Ray on the phone when you get home. He asked if he could call you after you texted him that you’d arrived.

“Sometimes, there’s nothing more to be done,” he says quietly. Considering how late it is, you have to wonder if your text woke him up.

“I know that, Ray. It doesn’t mean I have to be fine with it.”

There’s no answer from Ray, but you can hear his breathing at the other end of the line. You take off your shoes, lie down on your bed, and put the phone on speaker.

“Are you still there?” you ask him, closing your eyes. Like this, it’s easier to imagine he’s here with you.

“Yes.” He sounds far more awake than he had a few minutes earlier. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You wish that meant more than the obvious. You wish you could keep things as they are.

“It’s almost midnight. Where would you be going?” you joke.

He exhales heavily. You picture his unamused face and smile to yourself.

“There are a thousand places I could go to,” he says, and you can’t help but think that he could come to your place. “But tonight, I think I’ll just go to bed.”

You frown. “You’re still up?”

“I was waiting for you to get home.”

Remember, Ray doesn’t lie to you; if he said he wasn’t interested in anyone, that included you as well. This is simply another way of showing he cares about you.

“I’m home now. You can sleep.”

“I will. You should sleep too.” He says it fondly, and you wish you could see the look on his face right now, find out if his expression matches the softness of his tone.

“Goodnight, Ray.”

“Sleep well.”

You hang up and don’t bother getting changed, just pull the covers over yourself and let exhaustion take over.

* * *

Saturday is unremarkable; you spend it doing your best to be a source of support and emotional stability to any of the boys that might need it, because it’s no secret that some of them consider you as some sort of father figure, and hearing about Ernie’s dad left them looking at you with varying levels of concern and anxiousness that make you feel like they’re already planning your funeral, so you have to go and remind them that you’re very much alive, healthy, and willing to yell at them to get them to stop hovering and go do something useful with their day.

On Sunday morning, you get on a bus and go to visit Ernie’s father.

He’s in a small room that he shares with two other patients, and he seems delighted to have a visitor.

“Everything here is boring and plain,” he mutters, looking around with contempt at the walls. “And the food? It’s terrible.” He makes a face. “No salt, no flavor… can you believe even the tea tastes like nothing? Like dirty nothingness.” He scoffs and throws his head back on the pillows, and that’s what makes you think that he’s going to be alright.

You pull a chair to his bedside and spend a while talking to him, trying not to feel uncomfortable when he thanks you for bringing Ernie to the hospital.

“We worry about him,” he says fondly, like he has accepted that Ernie will never stop making people worry about him, but that he usually doesn’t do anything that will make them fear for his safety. “But it seems he was right when he decided to go to your gym.” He smiles at that.

You remember the first time you saw Ernie. It was a cold October morning, you were opening the gym, and he showed up, hands in his pockets, head held high, and asked you if you were training new people.

“My mom’s scared I’m not doing anything with my life,” he’d said, matter-of-factly. “She says music doesn’t count, so I’m here to learn something else.” He’d then added, solemn and determined, “But I’m not giving up on music.”

You’d looked him up and down, trying to figure out if he was serious, and then you’d agreed to train him. His parents had showed up a week later to verify his claims that he was now dedicating himself to fighting, and that was how you ended up not only with Ernie’s trust, but his parents’ as well.

On the way out of the hospital, you see Mal and his girlfriend, who lights up when she sees you.

“Hello, Tam,” you say when she runs up to you, her many bracelets clinking against each other and drawing annoyed looks from the security guard, who sternly tells her you can’t run in a hospital, not even at the entrance.

The Tambourine smiles apologetically at the guard. When she turns her smile back at you, you know that she’s already forgotten what he said.

“Mister Coach, hi!” she says, smiling up at you and making the corner of your mouth twitch with amusement at her way of referring to you. “Are you here to see Ernie’s dad?”

“I was on my way out,” you say, and look up from her to greet Mal.

“Hi, Coach,” he says, distractedly allowing the Tambourine to grab his arm and put it around her shoulders. “How was he?”

“Bored out of his mind, but recovering.”

“Oh, we brought him the day’s newspaper,” the Tambourine says, raising a tote bag on which she’d drawn a smiling sun. “I’d have brought him some muffins, but I don’t want to get in trouble with the nurses again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Again?”

Mal makes a dismissive gesture with his free hand and the Tambourine shakes her head vigorously, her messy hair flying around and making Mal lean away from her to keep it from hitting his face.

“Nothing remarkable, Coach, don’t worry,” Mal says, while the Tambourine nods.

The only reason you believe that is because the Tambourine has kept Mal on a tight leash since the Mickey Pearson incident, and you know she’d be the first to tell you if anything that was worth paying attention to had happened. You once described her to Ray as your biggest ally.

“She has been with Mal for years, Ray,” you’d told him, as you tried to explain to him why you were so certain that at least Mal should stay out of trouble in the future. “Since they were twelve, apparently, and she’s stayed by him through everything. When she found out about the stunt they pulled at your boss’ farm, though? She almost left him. I’d never seen Mal afraid of anything before that.”

You chat for a few minutes with Mal and the Tambourine, get updated on the Tambourine’s job and life, tease Mal a bit about when he’s going to make an honest woman out of his girlfriend, and then say goodbye to them, watching them walk away hand in hand towards the lifts and mentally wishing them all the best.

You haven’t really had a moment’s rest since Friday, your sleep has been light and unsatisfying, and your waking moments have been spent thinking about what to do with Ernie and the others’ misplaced concern for you. If you could choose what to do in this moment, you’d drive to Ray’s place and crawl into his bed, ask him to press his fingers to your back and draw patterns on your skin until you forgot why you were so reluctant to let him be part of your life, and then take his hand and kiss his fingertips, his knuckles, his palm, let him know that you love him in that way he longs for and silently ask him to give you a chance.

Because you’re a grown man who knows perfectly well what will happen if you do that, not a lovesick teenage girl, you text him to tell him you aren’t in the mood for sex today.

He calls you, and you chastise yourself for how happy you are to hear his voice. Then again, considering you don’t have much time left with him, perhaps you should allow yourself to have this small pleasure.

“Are you going to try to talk me into meeting you today anyway?” you joke after the mandatory greetings are done.

There’s an amused huff at the other side of the line before Ray says, “Yes, but not in the way you think.” You should have realized earlier that he was over Pearson; there’s an easiness in his tone that wasn’t there when you first met him and that you can’t help but notice now. Now he sounds happy when he talks to you.

“What does that mean, Ray?” You find a seat in the hospital’s common area and allow yourself to smile; nobody here knows enough to judge you for your bad emotional decisions.

“I want to come over to see you. No second intentions.”

That’s a very bad idea. You don’t know where to start with how bad of an idea it is, but all the reasons you have aren’t things you should say over the phone. What you want to say is the sort of words that must be spoken in person, so Ray can get a chance to read your apology in your face, so Ray can know how much you mean everything.

You swallow. “Ray…”

“You can say no. You know that, right?” He sounds concerned and uncertain, like he truly believes that after all this time you aren’t aware that he’s always given you the chance to leave.

“Yes, I do.” You close your eyes. “I was… You surprised me, that’s all.”

“That I want to see you?”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve had a rough couple of days.” You hear him exhale. “I want to know for sure how you’re doing.”

“What, you don’t trust me when I say I’m fine?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that…” He hums in thought. “Sometimes you say you’re fine, but when I touch you it’s obvious that you aren’t.”

You think about him caressing your back after the first time he fucked you. How, weeks later, he touched your face as you talked about relationships. How sometimes he pulls you close and proceeds to kiss you like he thinks it’s a privilege that might be revoked in any moment, while other times he holds you instead, presses his lips to your neck and maps your body until you’ve forgotten that you had any worries besides how his beard might mark your skin. Of course Raymond Smith, who is always filing away details in his mind, cataloguing weaknesses and finding the cracks in other people’s armor, noticed the tension in your muscles when you kept quiet about the insignificant daily concerns that sometimes piled up and made you want to break things. You guess you should be grateful that he allowed you not to say anything, that he simply focused on helping you relax.

That’s what he’s doing now, isn’t it? Only that he’s offering company instead of sex.

You open your eyes and take a deep breath. You can have this, right? You’re not betraying his trust if you let him visit you as a friend.

“Do you want to help me make lunch?” you say.

“I made lasagna yesterday.” You can hear his pleased smile. “I can bring over what’s left.”

There’s a joke waiting under your tongue, something about whether or not Ray was being honest about not having any hidden intentions for today. After all, both of you remember what happened the first time he gave you lasagna. The joke has been made before; in fact, it has been repeated every time he’s decided to cook that, and by this point it’s almost an invitation to repeat the events from that night in a more mutually satisfying manner.

That’s the reason the joke stays under your tongue; you can’t give Ray the idea that something might happen between yourselves today. You wish you could warn him that you’ll never touch him again.

“Meet me at my place in an hour,” you say.

There’s a pause before he replies, “See you soon.”

You spend the ride home home worrying about what you’ll do when you see Ray, you keep thinking about it while you wait for him, and when you unlock the door to let him in you’re caught between how easy it is to fall back into the old routine of banter and fondness, and how hard it is not to question every word you say, every touch you allow yourself, wondering if you’re giving yourself away whenever you look at him.

He asks about Ernie, about his father, about how the others are handling it. You tell him that they’ve suggested you go see a doctor, just in case, that Ernie’s taken a few days off training and that his father seems to be doing well, all things considered.

It’s only when there isn’t any food left in your plates that he looks directly at you, rests his elbows on the table, and asks, “How are you holding up?”

He says it like it’s important for him to know, all of his attention centered on you, and there’s concern in the tight line of his mouth, in the slight furrow of his brow, in the way he struggles to keep his gaze fixed on your eyes instead of looking you up and down to study you.

“I’m getting by.” You exhale through your teeth. “I’m worried about Ernie. I worry about how the boys are worried about me. I don’t like that there’s nothing I can do besides being there for them.”

“I think that might be enough,” Ray says slowly. “I don’t believe they actually want anything else from you.”

You think about Primetime keeping you company as you ate outside the emergency room. You think about that year you spent Christmas at Jim’s and New Year’s at Benny’s, and about the time the Tambourine felt sad that many didn’t have dates for Valentine’s and sent Mal to the gym with the biggest box of muffins you’ve ever seen. You think about your boys, the current ones and the ones that have already left the gym, taking turns to have you over for holidays, and how you don’t really understand why they do it (you know why they do it, you’re not stupid; it’s just that it still doesn’t make much sense to you).

“You really believe that?”

He looks away from you and stays silent for a moment, clearly pondering how to say what he’s thinking. Unlike you, he has no trouble filtering his words when you’re together.

“You found all those… those _young men_ , because that’s what they are.” He gives you a meaningful look to which you shrug noncommitally in response. “You found them, or they found you, and you gave them something to occupy themselves with. And after that you gave them your time, and you gave them far more of yourself than anybody asked of you.” He blinks rapidly. “When we met, you… You were ready to die for them.”

You clench your jaw and stare at him, anger hardening your tone when you ask, “What are you saying, Ray? That I shouldn’t care?”

He takes off his glasses and only looks at you for a moment, calm and perhaps resigned.

“No. I’m saying that you don’t have to…” He puts on his glasses again. “I’m saying that you’d sell a kidney for them without them asking. And I’m saying that they’d never ask, because they care about you.” He takes a slow breath. “You don’t have to give them whatever’s left of you after you’ve given them everything. They don’t want it. They’d probably try to give back what you gave them if they realized how much it was.” He raises a hand when you open your mouth. “You told me yourself that they worry about you and want you to be happy. You don’t expect the people you love to martyr themselves for you.”

You already know that, but the boys have years ahead, they have plans, hopes and dreams, people that wait for them to come home every day, while all you have is your wish to make things slightly better for people that remind you of who you used to be, so you might as well direct that energy towards keeping them from making the sort of mistakes you made.

“Love is a strong word, Ray,” you say, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

“Are you going to tell me they don’t love you? That you don’t love them?” Once again, he starts blinking quickly. “You worry about Ernie, and about the others, and you’re chastising yourself for all the things you can’t do.” He makes a vague gesture with a hand. “It sounds a lot like love to me.”

He’s right. You don’t like that he’s right. You don’t like that he doesn’t know that you’d put your life on the line for him as well, and that it might mean nothing to him if he found out (or worse, that he might file it away as another detail about you, something he can use against you someday if he needs to).

“I don’t think you have the right to chastise me for how I spend my life after all you’ve given to Mickey Pearson.”

Ray looks away from from you and rests his hands on the table, where he opens and closes them.

“I’m working on it,” he says quietly.

You bite your tongue, or you’ll end up reminding him of how he’s about to take over Pearson’s business just because he asked, even though you can’t imagine Ray enjoying the sort of life Pearson leads. Ray likes to fix problems, find solutions, keep everything neatly labeled and organized, but he also needs to be able to go home at the end of the day and forget himself for a couple of hours.

This isn’t the time to argue. Soon, nothing you’ve ever said to each other will matter, so you won’t spend what might be one of your last meetings with Ray trying to work through your respective issues.

You stand up and take your plate to the kitchen. He takes the hint and helps you clear the table and wash the dishes, not saying a word, but occasionally his hand brushes yours and you think that, despite everything, things between yourselves are alright.

He picks up his belongings once everything has been put in order.

“See you on Friday?” he asks as you unlock the door, standing in front of you and watching you cautiously.

You study him, give yourself a moment to memorize his face, the way he looks at you, the exact shade of his eyes.

He notices your hesitation and slowly brings a hand to your face, caresses your forehead with his fingertips and says, “You can say no. Or cancel later.”

You need him to stop touching you, but you don’t trust yourself to push his hand away; you might end up holding it and bringing it to your lips.

“See you on Friday,” you say, moving to unlock the door and letting his hand hang in the air.

He watches you with narrowed eyes and his lips slightly parted. You can only hope he attributes your odd behavior to what happened with Ernie, or to your recent conversation.

* * *

Waiting for Friday is a careful exercise in conscious dissociation. The awareness of what you have to do is constantly at the back of your mind, so you refuse to react to it and don’t allow it to affect the way you deal with others and with yourself. You don’t pay attention to the sinking feeling in your stomach when he texts you on Thursday to arrange Friday’s meeting, and decide not to wonder what Ray will do when you tell him that, unfortunately, you didn’t stick to the terms of the arrangement and that the word ‘darling’ isn’t a joke anymore. You tell yourself you aren’t afraid, and ignore the way your mind rebels against the lie.

On Friday, time simultaneously passes too quickly and too slowly. You want the clock to stop, you want to stay in the safety of the gym, and a part of you almost hopes something will happen that will save you from talking to Ray. Every minute that passes you’re a moment closer to the unknown. Every minute that that passes you’re closer to being free, to saying goodbye to Ray forever, to being allowed to forget what it’s like to feel him against you.

Not that you actually believe you’ll be able to forget him; if there’s anything the last twenty years have proven to you is that nothing burns itself into your memory as clearly as the touch of someone that can make the world stop for you.

As eager as you are to get things over with, you still manage not to get to Ray’s place early. As reluctant as you are to tell him how you feel, you still manage to ring the doorbell.

Nobody opens the door for you. You wait for a couple of minutes before ringing it again.

No answer.

Frowning, you check your watch. It says you got there in time.

Still frowning, you check your phone, wondering if somehow you got the date or the time wrong, but the screen tells you that it’s Friday and that your watch had the right time, and the messages from Ray say that, yes, you’re in the right place at the right time. You knock on the door and try not to think about Russians with guns and how Ray doesn't have any sort of security measures to keep intruders away.

You try to peek into the house through the windows, then walk around and inspect the backyard, but nothing makes it seem that he might have had some unexpected guests. His car isn’t here, maybe he simply got delayed by traffic.

Except he lets you know when that happens.

When you hoped that something would happen to keep you from having to tell Ray how you felt, you didn’t mean you wanted something to happen to him. Not to Ray. Never to him.

Should you call him?

You return to the front door and sit down in front of it, let your head hang and you bury your hands in your hair.

Couldn’t you have fallen in love with someone for whom a violent death wasn’t a real daily risk?

You force yourself to push down your worries and decide to give Ray twenty more minutes to show signs of life before you do something about his absence.

Half an hour after the appointed time, Ray’s car appears. You only have a few seconds to school your face into a bored expression, to swallow the worried questions and pretend you haven’t spent thirty minutes scared shitless.

All your efforts go to Hell when Ray steps out of his car. His hair’s messy, his clothes are dishevelled, and the look on his face speaks of violence. What scares you, however, is how he cradles his right hand.

You stand up and move towards him before you’re aware of what you’re doing.

Ray stills next to his car when he sees you, watches you walk towards him with a look that reminds you of your first meeting, when he was assessing whether you were a threat or an asset. Friend or foe. Whether or not you’d get to walk away unharmed. You distantly note that he pulls his coat tighter around himself, and some part of your mind considers how the day hasn’t really been cold enough to warrant a coat.

What was it he’d said to Fletcher? Something about prey and predators, about how Ray and Pearson were the latter. You’ve never asked Ray what he sees you as, and right now it doesn’t matter, because you’ve still taken the very stupid decision of approaching a wounded animal.

Then again, you’ve long thought of Ray as the stuff of fairy tales, and in those it’s always smart to help the wounded beast, the witch in disguise, the lost knight.

You pretend not to notice him clenching his teeth and standing defensively when you stop in front of him.

“What happened?” you ask him, more harshly than you should, because Ray got hurt and that can only mean that something went wrong. Things are supposed to happen to those around Ray, but not to Ray himself.

He looks you in the eye. “Nothing you want to know about,” he says coldly.

The man in front of you isn't Ray, it's Mr. Smith. It's the man you met in a pub and who held your life in the palm of his hand. The man in front of you is still everything you want, still beautiful and, well, didn’t you also think that he could be terrible? How could you forget that?

He steps around you and heads for the house.

“Ray,” you call after him. He doesn’t turn around, keeps walking and forcing you to follow him. “Ray,” you say forcefully as you fall into step with him.

He’s blinking quickly and his hands shake as he unlocks the door. At least he doesn’t try to keep you out of his house.

“Ray, will you look at me?” you say, more loudly, when he starts heading for his room.

He stops and finally turns to acknowledge your presence.

“You should probably go home,” he says, his shoulders tense and his tone carefully even. You ache to touch him, to check if he’s injured, to reassure yourself that he’s alright. “I forgot to tell you not to come today.”

You scoff. “You know I’m not leaving.”

His hands curl into fists and you wonder if this is it, the moment you realize you got it wrong and that he _would_ hurt you. He watches you with hard eyes and sets his jaw, and you cross your arms over your chest, stand straight and return his gaze. If he wants to intimidate you, he’ll have to try harder.

Instead, Ray turns around and continues the walk to his room. You have no choice but to follow him.

“Let me see that,” you say, gesturing towards his right hand once you’re both in his room.

You’re ready for him to argue, you have your arguments ready in case he decides to be difficult about this, but he extends his hand towards you and lets you inspect the broken skin, poke at his joints and move his fingers. There’s no blood and nothing seems broken.

He doesn’t blink when you look up at his face, when you reach for it and make him look to the sides, trying to see if there are any injuries you missed. He steps away from you when you try to push back his coat to check his ribs.

You let your hands drop to your sides. “What did you do?”

He raises an eyebrow. “My job.”

He watches you defiantly, as if waiting for you to say something about that, as if daring you to reveal that at some point you stopped paying attention to the occasional bruises and the gun he carries everywhere.

“I didn’t think your boss would send you on that sort of errand,” you say, feeling anger bubble up inside you. Mickey Pearson has thugs, he doesn’t need to risk Ray.

“Sometimes the job requires someone that can be trusted to get it done correctly,” Ray says far too calmly, stepping away from you and taking off his coat.

Your reply to that dies on your lips when you see what his coat had been hiding.

“Ray, what the fuck is that?” You gesture towards his side.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “My gun.”

“I’ve seen your gun and that’s not it,” you say.

Because it isn’t. What he put on your desk to threaten you all those months ago was the handgun he held back when the Russians came to kill him. What’s hanging from his shoulder right now is a… what. An Uzi? An AK? It’s an exaggeration. It’s absurd. It’s not a gun as much as it’s a phallic symbol, the sort of thing you carry around to make others feel their own manhoods threatened.

“It’s what I bring when Michael asks me to go on an errand,” he says, studying your face.

You refuse to accept this. You don’t want to think about the sort of shit Ray gets involved in that he needs it, and that’s a problem, isn’t it, because he’s been getting involved in that sort of crap since long before he met you and it’ll only get worse when he takes over for Pearson. You not thinking about it doesn’t make it any less of a reality.

He leaves the room and returns moments later without the gun. You don’t know what face you’re making, but his reaction to it is to raise an eyebrow and give you an unimpressed look.

“Do you have any more questions?”

“I want to know what happened, Ray,” you grit out, trying not to yell. It’s not the time for that. When he opens his mouth you add, “And I want the truth, not a bunch of metaphors and riddles.”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “What happened was that there was still a loose end from that affair with the Russians that needed to be taken care of.”

You stare at him blankly. “The Russians? Again?”

“I think you mean ‘still’. It should finally be over.” He tilts his head slightly to the side and keeps watching you warily. “What, you thought it all ended after you shot those men?”

Naively, you did, and all you can think to say now is, “You never said anything.”

“What was I supposed to say?” His words are dripping with mockery. “Something about how my job and my life have kept going as usual? You wanted a reminder, _Coach_?” This time the title is challenging, a reminder that you have your boys and your gym and that the most dangerous part of your life is a man that has done everything in his power to make sure you are safe with him.

A man that today, for some reason, has allowed you to remember exactly who he is, and who seems to be doing everything in his power to make you want to leave.

“Ray, what’s happening?” you ask, keeping your voice carefully controlled. “What sort of shit is going on with the Russians that Pearson needed to send you to deal with it? Is someone going to come over and try to kill you again?”

He shakes his head dismissively. “Michael didn’t send me, I asked him to go.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Why the fuck would you do that?” you ask exasperatedly.

“Because it was the only way I could be sure that things would go right.”

“Somebody else could have done it!” You’re speaking more loudly than you should, but how can you keep your composure when this insufferable control freak is out there willingly risking himself?

“I wasn’t going to let anybody else handle this.” Ray, meanwhile, has managed not to raise his voice.

“Why?” you almost shout.

“Because…” He blinks rapidly. “I don’t want to tell you, and I won’t lie to you.”

Ah. Of course. Suddenly, you’re tired.

“You can say it’s about Pearson,” you say, resigned, your voice back under control.

It’s Ray’s turn to stare. He only blinks once, slowly, before saying, “What?”

You almost laugh at his face. “Come on, Ray. It’s always about Pearson with you.”

He narrows his eyes. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

That he loved him once and that even if he’s over him, Pearson is still the most important person in Ray’s life. That no matter how much you worry about Ray, if Mickey Pearson sent him to jump off a bridge for the good of his business he’d do it and you’d be unable to stop him.

"You have no life beyond working for him. He's retiring and you're taking over his business now.” You gesture at him. “Do you actually want to do it or is it only because he asked you to?”

“You don’t understand anything,” he says forcefully, shaking his head. “If I take over, I won’t have to deal with things like these again.”

You laugh humorlessly, mocking. “Is that what you believe? All of this is happening because of him, remember? When you take over there’ll still be shit; you’ll simply have other people handling it before you can notice it.”

“What would you have me do? Retire?” Ray takes a step towards you. “And what will I do with my life then?”

"Find something new, Ray!” You wave a hand in the air. “I don’t know, just… find something you love and devote yourself to it like you did with Pearson."

Ray closes his eyes and smiles, that small and self-deprecating thing you’ve come to associate with his feelings for Pearson.

"I'll be powerless if I retire," he says as he looks at you again. He uses the tone he used back when you met, businesslike and detached. His shoulders are still tense. “No influence, no contacts.”

"Since when do you care about that?"

"That's also none of your business."

"We're fucking, Ray.” You point a finger at him. “That makes it my business."

“Oh, please. We both know this is ending soon.” He looks you in the eye, daring you to deny it, and you wonder if he knows, if he has realized how you feel and hates you for it, if that’s the reason he’s been trying to push you away today. “You’ve been acting strangely since I told you about Michael’s request.” Oh, good, he doesn’t know anything. “I get it. It’s too dangerous for everyone.” A drop of resignation stains his otherwise perfectly matter-of-fact tone.

It takes you a moment to understand what he's talking about, and when you do, you bury a hand in your hair and close your eyes. “What the fuck was I thinking, getting involved with you?” you say quietly.

You’d been so caught in dealing with your love for him that you never thought about everyone else.

It doesn’t matter that you forget about the world when you’re alone with Ray; it keeps existing and there are people in it that would gladly hurt Ray to get back at him for something or to deliver a blow to Pearson’s business. If you stay around him after he takes over, you might be the one that ends up hurt to get to him. You think about your boys, about Ernie’s father, even about the Tambourine, and wonder how many of them might get hurt as well because of your involvement with Ray.

“That’s what I’ve been wondering every single day for the last seven months,” Ray says. You look at him to find him watching you with open displeasure. “What was it that kept you coming back? The thrill? The danger? The illusion of power?”

Even if you hadn’t fallen for him, you couldn’t have kept the arrangement going. That night it had been nice to believe that nothing would change, that even with Ray’s new job you’d be able to wake up in his bed every Saturday and welcome him at your place on Sundays, but it was only a pretty fantasy, one that Ray seems eager to shatter and burn as quickly as possible.

“We’ve already talked about all of that, Ray. What got into you today?” you ask him. “I feel like you’ve been trying to pick a fight since the moment you saw me.” He breathes heavily, watching you with narrowed eyes. You extend your arms to the sides and smile proudly at him, head raised, daring him to hit you. “If you want to fight, let’s fight.”

You wish for it. You wish he'd hurt you and prove to you that you haven’t learned a single thing in two decades.

He takes a step back and slowly says, "I'd rather fuck you than fight you," anger and exhaustion intertwined with his voice.

“That works with me,” you say. You move into his space, grab him by the tie and pull him towards you.

It’s like he’d been waiting for it; his mouth crashes against yours and he’s pressing his tongue to your lips before you’re fully aware of where you end and where he begins, so in revenge for that you grab him by the hair and take control of the kiss. He groans into your mouth and pulls at your jacket, gets you out of it while you’re still figuring out how to undo his tie’s knot, and laughs as you fumble with it.

“You could help me with this,” you mutter, and then his hands are pushing yours out of the way and loosening his tie. Since he’s busy with that, you take off your glasses and his to leave them on the nightstand.

“You can handle the rest,” he says before kissing you again, his tie now loose around his neck.

He pushes up your t-shirt, presses his fingers to your ribs and rubs your skin without any gentleness, so you stop giving a fuck and proceed to half unbutton, half pull open his vest and shirt, distantly noting that some buttons go flying in the process.

“You’ll have to help me find those,” Ray says against your neck, scratching the skin with his teeth.

He tugs at your t-shirt, pulls it over your head and drops it to the floor, and then he’s pushing you down on the bed, straddling you, leaning forward to cage you between his arms and watching you intently. You tilt your head up and to the side, exposing your neck, and instead of taking the invitation to bite it or kiss it, he lowers his head to kiss your lips again, pressing his body to yours, making all of you become aware of his warmth, his weight, and how much he wants you.

He hisses when you touch his ribs, and you push him back, make him straddle you so you can inspect his chest, and you sit up as well as you can to help him take off his shirt and vest. You can see bruises starting to bloom on his skin, and you slowly touch his ribs to check them, but then he puts his left hand on your fingers, forcing them against a bruise. It makes him let out a pained sound that has you pulling him towards you to kiss him again, this time more gently, carefully, despite how your fingers have moved to his back so you can dig your nails into his flesh, hard enough to be felt, not enough to break his skin. He groans into your mouth and bites your lip, and you raise your hips to grind against him, to make his breathing speed up.

Ray raises himself to look down at you, anger still present in his eyes and in the set of his jaw, so you once again look at him proudly, daring him to do something about it.

He pushes himself away from you and starts taking off his trousers. You give yourself a moment to watch him, to take note of the new bruises on his chest, and then notice that he favors his left hand as he takes what you’ll need out of the nightstand drawer.

You exhale heavily and rest a hand on his wrist when he grabs a glove.

“Give me that."

He looks at you questioningly.

“Your hand still hurts, doesn’t it? I can take care of myself.”

He licks his lips and wordlessly hands you the glove and the lube. You take off the rest of your clothes, lean back and try not to think about how intently he’s watching you, try not to focus on the hand he rests against your calf and how he caresses you every time you make a sound. You think you could come just from the way he looks at you as you prepare yourself for him.

“I’m ready,” you say when you can easily push three fingers into yourself.

“Don't turn around,” he says quietly, his voice rough around the edges, and positions himself between your legs, sliding his hands up to your hips.

You raise an eyebrow, questioning, and take off the glove.

“I like to look at you,” he says as he slips into you. "You're a sight to behold."

You want to laugh at yourself, at how instead of feeling embarrassed by the sort of things he says, you wish they meant he felt something besides lust for you.

You don’t get to laugh because Ray wastes no time in finding his rhythm, and that has you moaning instead and reaching for him to have him as close as possible, to have his breath in your ear and his lips on your neck. You get carried away by the smell of his skin and sweat, by how his touch burns you and makes you want more, makes you want everything he’s willing to give you. He can have all of you, if he wants it.

He’s thrusting into you, getting you closer and closer to the edge, and for a moment you forget yourself and three words crawl from under your tongue and slip past your lips.

Any hope you could have that Ray didn’t hear them flies out the window when he stops moving. He pushes himself up on his elbows and looks at you, studying you like he’s never seen you before, a myriad of emotions crossing his face in a moment. What terrifies you is that you think he looks hopeful at some point.

You do your best to look confused and frustrated and to sound eager, bordering on desperate, as you ask, “Why did you stop?”

His eyes narrow almost unnoticeably. He licks his lips and you can’t help but follow the movement with your eyes.

“You just said-”

“That I love what you’re doing,” you say quickly, closing your eyes and rolling your hips to make it believable. “Come on, Ray, why did you stop?” you groan.

“Ah.” You open your eyes to find he’s still studying you. “Right. You said that.” He keeps looking at you, and the fact that he’s still inside you and that you’re still turned on makes the situation border on humiliating. You hate this. It turns out he’s not only holding your stupid heart in his hands now, but also your chances of getting off in the next few minutes.

He licks his lips again, keeps his eyes on you, and the almost pitying look he's giving you tells you that you didn't fool him. At least you have enough pride left not to make a sound when he slips out of you, but something must show on your face, because he drags a hand up your side and asks you to be patient before he's making you turn around. Then he's inside you again.

"Come here," he says, putting an arm around your torso and helping you sit up, until your back is against his chest. He moves his hands to your hips and starts thrusting into you again, muffling his words and sounds against your shoulder. You stare straight ahead, keep his pace and touch yourself to get off faster, because the sooner this ends, the better, and you clench your jaw and refuse to make a sound when you finally come.

Ray doesn't let go of you after he comes; he merely pulls out and adjusts his hold on you to keep you against him. One of his arms is around your waist and his other hand is caressing your chest, tracing old scars and reminding you of everything you fear. His forehead is pressed to the back of your neck and his breath burns your skin, but you don't want him to let go.

When he kisses your back, you know exactly what he'll say if you let him, and because you need this to end, because you can't take the risk of having him, because you don't want to have to be brave enough to love him, you quietly say, "We have to talk."

He breathes in deeply and tightens his hold on you, the fingers of the hand that's resting on your hip digging into your flesh, his other hand gripping your shoulder. You can't remember anyone ever clinging to you before, and it almost makes you want to let him tell you how he feels about you.

"Can it wait until morning?" he murmurs against your neck, resignedly.

You don't answer; you grab his hands and make him let go of you, but then you still pull him with you towards the bathroom for a shower. You barely look at each other as you get under the spray, barely touch as you remove all traces of what just happened, and it's a pitiful attempt at routine that has you helping him change the sheets and getting under the covers with him.

He settles down on his side, turned towards you, but, thankfully, he doesn’t try to touch you; you wouldn’t know how to deal with having one of his arms on your back and his breath against your shoulder while you pretend to fall asleep.

You lie in the dark with your eyes closed, force your body to relax, make your breaths deep and even and then wait until Ray has fallen asleep. It takes him a while, you can feel him shifting in the bed, and at some point you’re sure he’s watching you, but eventually he settles, his breathing changes, and it feels like time has stopped inside the room, the only movement being the steady rise and fall of Ray’s chest, the only sound being your own heartbeat in your ears. You keep waiting, hum some songs to yourself in your mind while paying attention to the minute changes in Ray’s posture, and after an hour you conclude that he's probably truly asleep, not pretending.

Just in case, you edge close to him and, slowly, move a hand towards his neck, fully knowing that, if he’s awake, he’ll try to fight off the apparent threat and you might get a bloody nose again. What happens when you lightly rest your palm against his skin is that you remember other times you’ve laid your hand there – memories of kisses, of feeling his pulse speed up as you told him what you’d be doing to him the moment you made it to his room, of times you caressed his neck and brushed his lips with your thumb after he’d sucked you off.

Ray remains asleep, and because you’re an idiot you can’t resist looking at him for a moment longer, to try to memorize the angle of his nose, the curve of his ear and the line of his neck before silently slipping out of bed, grabbing your clothes, and leaving.

You don't text him when you get home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, for the last time.
> 
> Thank you for your patience, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

This is what your first day without Ray is like:

You don't sleep as much as you drift in and out of unconsciousness. At some point you look at your phone and conclude it’s a decent time to get out of bed - not early enough that someone would give you an odd look if they knew, but not late enough to make you feel like you’re wasting the morning - so that’s what you do.

You miscalculate and make too much to eat for breakfast, so you decide to eat everything and to either skip lunch or eat it later than usual. While you’re having breakfast, you get a text from Ernie telling you that his father is going home today, and that his mother wants to have a small celebration tomorrow at their place.

After showering and getting dressed, you figure it’d be good to clean the apartment, do laundry, and check the upcoming week’s schedule, and by the time everything’s finished, enough hours have passed that you’re hungry again. You have some leftovers in the fridge, which you eat while watching some unremarkable movie on TV.

Around dinnertime you get a text from Mauricio telling you that he and some of the guys he used to train with at the gym are going out for drinks. You join them, joke with them and drink enough to almost feel content. You return home alone, climb under the covers fully dressed and fall asleep.

It’s a very unremarkable day.

* * *

This is the truth of your first day without Ray:

You can’t sleep and you don’t want to be awake. When you stretch your arm, you touch the edge of the mattress and you remember you’re alone, that Ray won’t be back in this bed. From there you follow the line of thought to the fact that you’ll never have him pressed to your side again, drawing lines on your back with his fingertips, and after that it’s easy to reach the conclusion that you’re an idiot that should have known better. How could you believe that it was safe for you to keep coming back to him week after week? He held you when you were tired and you ensured nothing disturbed his sleep. He was gentle when he touched you and rough when you asked him to, and you made it your duty to memorize every sound he made when you kissed him. He handed you the sports section first at breakfast and you checked the traffic before he left your flat, telling him which route home should be faster. You allowed yourselves to carve your own spaces in each other’s lives, did it so slowly that you didn’t notice the changes until it was impossible to pretend that you only met for sex, and yet you kept telling that pretty lie to yourselves so things would remain non-threatening.

A pretty lie you told yourself so you wouldn’t have to think about the possibility of feelings.

You know what happens when you think things _matter:_ you stop paying attention to the signs, you make excuses, you tell yourself it’s fine when you don’t get the softness you asked for. You allow yourself to believe that you’re dear and important, when the truth is that you were born to be a pawn in the games of people with more ambition than you. People like Ray, who is going to lead Pearson’s business now.

Ray, always loyal and tired, who asked for you and your boys to be spared because you saved his life, who always fell asleep with his arm thrown over your back and asked you to let him know you got home in one piece.

Ray, who tried so hard to make you feel safe around him that the reminder of the life he leads felt like a blow.

Ray, who would have loved you back if you hadn’t run away.

When you turn and bury your face in the pillow in an attempt to drown your thoughts, you realize there’s nothing left to remind you of Ray. Any trace of his smell was removed from your sheets when you did the laundry, he never left anything at your place, and the bruises on your hips from last night will be gone in a few days. You only have your memories, but longing is a liar that makes everything better, just as regret makes everything worse, and you want Ray, not the picture your feelings will paint in your mind. Not like it matters; in the end, time will steal even that fantasy and then Ray will be truly gone.

Now that's a funny lie, considering how it's been twenty years and you're still haunted by a smile and everything its owner did and said to you.

You need to see Ray. You hope he blocked your number and decided to forget you as soon as he realized that you were gone. You want him to hate you and give you a good reason to forget him. You want to regret what you had instead of regretting what you threw away.

Getting out of bed is more about escaping from your own mind than about actually starting your day. You don't succeed.

Breakfast tastes like nothing. You put the food in your mouth, chew and swallow, and it's only your sense of duty towards your body that keeps you eating while you try and fail not to think about fairy tales and poems, stories about how human food is flavourless after eating with the fae folk. That’s been the problem since the beginning, hasn't t? You were so busy thinking about the strangeness of your situation, so entertained by comparing it to the stuff of fantasy, that you never truly acknowledged the danger underneath. You shared everything with Ray, and now you’re his in a way you’d promised yourself you’d never be.

When you take away all the adornments, it turns out that magic and longing are the same: both can turn a man into a shadow of himself - or, in this case, into an insufferable cunt that thinks too much and uses fancy turns of phrase to distract himself from how he fucked up. You haven’t been awake for two hours and you're already sick of yourself.

Time to rejoin the real world, the one you so gleefully ignored in order to be with Ray.

Cleaning your flat will distract you for now. Going to Ernie’s will distract you tomorrow. You’ll spend days and weeks jumping from distraction to distraction until you can finally let go of what you decided to lose, and at some point you’ll be content again. Until then, you can get by.

You know you’re not fooling anyone when you meet with Mauricio and the others, but you tell them that it’s been a long week, that the only reason you look so tired is that you haven’t slept enough (it's the sort of lie that Ray would tell, one made of truth and omissions, and you have to wonder if he also learned something from you during the time you were together). You smile and you drink and you don’t think about what Ray would say about your choice of beverage, about whether or not he’d like what you’re wearing, and about how he won’t come to your flat tomorrow.

You drink until pretending becomes easy, and when you get home you’re so tired of pretending that you don’t want to bother with anything and go straight to bed, fully dressed and with all your regrets pressing down on your chest.

* * *

On Sunday morning you look at your reflection in the mirror, study the bags under your eyes and the sad line of your shoulders, and turn all of yesterday's musings into a promise: you’ll be fine. Today, you’ll go and congratulate Ernie’s father on surviving, you’ll talk to everyone, you’ll smile and joke, and it’ll be like old times, before you had a bad idea and acted on it. You won’t think about the bad idea, and if you do, you won’t let it affect you. Enough moping. Enough of being pathetic.

_“You were always rather naïve.”_

And enough of twenty years old memories.

Ernie said that the celebration would start at noon and that there was no need for you to bring anything, but you still buy a cake and arrive early, half to keep yourself distracted and half because you know that there’ll be too much to cook and not enough time for it, making every helping hand appreciated.

When you arrive to find Mal, Primetime and Jim being bossed around in the kitchen while Benny sets the table, you realize that you’re not the only one that knows that ‘a small celebration’ at Ernie’s means ‘a three course meal to which every person we care about has been invited to.’

“Hello, Coach,” Ernie’s mother says, taking the cake from you. “Thank you so much, you shouldn’t have bothered!” She puts the cake in the fridge and hands you an apron. “Now, could you help with the potatoes?”

“I put Mal to work on the potatoes, maybe he can help with the lettuce?” a voice says next to you, startling you. When you look down, you find the Tambourine standing by your side, her hair up in a tight bun, secured with a bright orange scrunchie. Where did she come from? “Hi, Mister Coach!” she says, looking up and smiling.

“Thanks, dear,” Ernie’s mother says, smiling at the Tambourine in that way all older women smile at her because she's petite, joyful, respectful, and would make a good addition to any family. “Could you wash the lettuce, Coach?” She points towards the vegetables waiting on the kitchen table.

“Of course,” you say, looking around and trying to figure out where to stand, because this kitchen wasn’t meant for more than three people and there were already five before your arrival, even though the Tambourine barely takes up any space.

Thankfully, Ernie’s mother has been handling things in her kitchen for years and knows how to make things work, and soon Mal and the potatoes have been sent to the dining room to ruin Benny’s efforts, Primetime and Jim have been sent to keep Ernie’s father entertained (“He’s not moving from that couch until he stops insisting that he’s fine”), and Ernie was called from his father’s side to help wash and put away what has already been used.

“Hi, Coach,” Ernie says, smiling when he sees you. “Nice apron,” he adds with a laugh.

You won’t pretend that the yellow apron with a flower pattern would have been your first choice, but at least it’s not ugly.

“Say anything else and you’ll be the one wearing it,” Ernie’s mother warns.

Ernie grimaces and gets to work, and so do you.

Behind you, Ernie’s mother and the Tambourine talk about the food, exchange advice, and give instructions to anyone who dares to look idle.

“I didn’t expect to find everyone here,” you say to Ernie as he dries dishes next to you.

“The Tambourine told Mal that they should get here early to help, and Mal made everybody else come too because he didn’t want to be the only one getting bossed around.” Ernie laughs. “When my mom saw them at the door, she thought they had the time wrong.”

You look towards where Ernie’s mother is busy criticizing the Tambourine’s sauce-stirring technique and then back at Ernie.

“I think she wanted some cooking tips from your mother,” you say.

“Probably, but it’s good to have everyone here distracting her.” He sets down the kitchen towel and rubs his hands against his trousers. “My dad’s going crazy with her fussing.” Ernie’s tone is light, but his shoulders are tense and his smile is small and doesn’t reach his eyes. You think he might be going crazy as well, but from trying not to fuss.

“How have you been?” you ask him quietly.

“I’ll be fine, Coach. Don’t worry about me.”

“I try, Ernie, but you don’t make it easy,” you say, trying to sound reassuring. The last thing Ernie needs is the pressure of your concern.

“Thanks, Coach.” He sniffs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m…” He looks towards his mother, who is listening attentively to something the Tambourine is saying about pumpkins. “We all know that dads die. It’s part of life and all that, how everyone dies.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “I’m trying to remember that my dad’s still here and that he’s fine.”

Anything you could say to that will sound empty and won’t do any sort of good, so you leave what you’re doing, dry your hands on the apron, and reach out to rest a hand on Ernie’s shoulder. He doesn't let it linger for long before he's stepping away and returning to the dishes.

After a while, you hear people arriving, and soon the sounds of conversations and laughter drift in from the living room. Every now and then, Benny, Jim or Primetime stands at the kitchen’s door, takes a quick look around, and goes back to whatever he’d been doing before. First, you think they’re checking on Ernie, but on the fourth appearance, which finds you carefully measuring flour for whatever it is that Ernie’s mother wants to make for tea (“I really appreciate the cake, Coach, but I like to have more than one thing to choose from”), you notice that what actually happens is that whoever is at the door catches the Tambourine’s eye, and in response she raises her right hand first, holding up two to four fingers, and then her left one, holding up one to three fingers. On the eighth appearance, you clear your throat and bring Jim’s and the Tambourine’s attention to yourself. Jim has received enough reproaching looks from you through the years to only seem mildly apologetic as you look from him to the Tambourine, but the Tambourine’s wide eyes and downturned mouth scream guilt. For what, though, you don’t know.

The Tambourine smiles awkwardly and waves at you.

“I’m gonna go check on Mal,” she says, almost running past Jim at the door.

You focus your attention on Jim and raise an eyebrow.

“All good, Coach,” he says, making a dismissive gesture with a hand. That’s when you notice that Ernie’s paying attention to the interaction, and when you turn towards him you catch him studying you. As soon as his eyes meet yours he shrugs and gives Jim a questioning look.

Jim makes a face and steps back, saying, “I’ll, uh… I’ll go back to talk to your dad, okay?” before escaping.

Ernie blinks and looks at you. “Don’t ask me, Coach, I don’t know what that was.”

So, whatever it is, it’s something that concerns all the boys except Ernie and which for some reason you shouldn’t know about either. That could be anything, and thinking about it makes a light headache start thrumming behind your forehead, right above your left eye. Then again, it might simply be the lack of sleep taking its toll on you.

Primetime walks into the kitchen, quickly says something that sounds like, “I need to borrow Ernie,” and drags Ernie out of the kitchen without giving him time to put down the bag of sugar he’d been holding.

Ah. Whatever it is, it’s something _you_ shouldn’t know about - the headache will definitely get worse at some point. Ernie’s mother watches the door for a couple of seconds and turns to give you a concerned look.

“Do you know anything?” she asks, tired and wary, because she has far more experience than you dealing with Ernie’s various plans, schemes, and general tendency to get in trouble.

You shake your head. “I’ll talk to them later.”

“Thank you, Coach.” She looks to the sky as if asking for help from a higher power. “At least he listens to you.”

Does he? You don’t need to think much about your past to conclude that you’re not the best person to listen to, but you figure Ernie could find someone worse. It’s not like he or any of the other boys knows about everything you’ve done. Ernie’s mother knows even less; as far as you’re aware, she has no idea about the Pearson incident, and you hope it stays like that. You don’t think you’d be welcomed here again if she found out you got her son running errands for a drug lord, even though said errands were preferable to suffering a nasty and painful death. People expect you to help these boys lead honest lives, and the problem with expectations is how easy it is not to live up to them.

The boys are alive and safe, and seem to have learned their lesson. Just as there’s much they don’t know about what you’ve been up to since the end of the Pearson affair, you suspect there’s much you ignore as well about what they did after that. You should know more. You should know everything, considering how they tried and failed to kill Pearson for you and ended two lives in the process. They weren't innocent men, but they were still people, and none of the boys is the sort of person that can kill without thinking about it. Not yet. Hopefully never.

You should have talked to them, but you never knew how, and since none of them approached you to talk about it either, you let the topic die. You can only hope it's not rotting in their minds, giving them nightmares and filling them with fear.

Now it’s too late to think about it.

For the rest of the day, you keep catching the boys trying to watch you without you noticing, quickly looking away as soon as you turn your attention towards them. Finally, you wait until the one you caught watching you in that moment dares to glance at you again, and you give him a serious look, raising an eyebrow questioningly and crossing your arms in front of your chest. Primetime averts his eyes and twists his mouth, and then you scan the room for the rest of the boys, making sure they realize that you _have_ noticed their staring and you _will_ demand an explanation later.

After that, they finally stop their vigilance, but their fidgeting and the constant signaling at each other doesn't make them any less suspicious. It's the same thing they were doing in the kitchen, holding up one to four fingers, even five at one point.

No. Not the signs they'd been doing in the kitchen, the signs _the Tambourine_ had been doing in the kitchen. You're ashamed to realize that you forgot she was there after she got out of your sight.

You look around slowly, searching for a mane of unruly hair and the glint of the Tambourine's usual golden earrings, try to listen for the distinct sound her bracelets make as she moves, and after you've given up you find her on the couch, animatedly talking to Leah, one of Ernie's many cousins. Her hair is still tied. She isn't wearing her earrings, nor her bracelets. She turns to scan the room and her eyes widen for an instant when they meet yours. She quickly composes herself and smiles, even having the nerve to wave at you before returning her attention to Leah. You watch her as she takes out her phone from her pocket, gesturing for Leah to give her a moment as she types what you assume is a text.

You listen carefully to the sounds around you - at least two phones in the room let their owners know that a message just reached them. You search for where you think you heard one of them and find Benny checking his phone and making a face.

Whatever all of this is, you have to recognize that it seems to be organized. You wonder how they got the Tambourine involved. How will you tell Ray that you were wrong about her and that she had just as little sense as her boyfriend and his friends? You don't like being wrong about people. He'll say something sympathetic, but he'll add that you should never trust anyone too much, especially a young woman that has enough things in common with one of your lads to be in a long-term relationship with him. He'll say that lightly, so you'll know he's joking and that he's not insulting the boys or trying to sound condescending, and then he’ll say that you're being too hard on everyone, that you could be wrong about being wrong and that there might be a perfectly good reason for the Tambourine to help the boys with something.

It doesn't immediately hit you how wrong that thought was. For a moment it's a vague feeling of confusion, like forgetting what you were about to do as you enter a room, and then you remember. You'll never get to tell this to Ray. He'll never get to tease you about your disappointment.

You'd been so busy worrying about what the boys might be up to, that for a while you forgot yourself.

To continue with the earlier comparison: it’s like realizing that you entered the room to attend the wake of a loved one. Now you have to navigate your own grief among a sea of people that are only there to give meaningless condolences.

Time for a break.

* * *

Not wanting to think about something is the easiest way to ensure you won’t be able to get it out of your mind, especially when it’s something that hurts or scares you, and even more when it’s something that does both things.

You first escaped to the kitchen, where you didn’t last a minute. There were too many dishes piled up, too much of a mess to clean up for you to keep yourself from imagining how unhappy Ray would have been to see it.

After that, you went outside for some air, but being alone is an invitation to be haunted by memories and facts.

As you're telling yourself that what you feel isn’t regret and trying to figure out where to go next, you're startled by a light touch on your elbow.

“Sorry, mister Coach,” the Tambourine says, smiling up at you and doing a curtsy. She hasn’t put on any of her jewelry yet, but she undid her bun; now the only thing keeping her face from being swallowed by that fluffy monster she calls her hair is the valiant effort of a wide green headband that has clearly seen better times. You make a mental note to get her some new headbands for Christmas.

“Hi, Tam,” you say, taking your hands out of your pockets. You turn to look towards the building’s entrance and catch Mal and Jim rushing out of view.

The Tambourine looks pained when you turn back to her.

“Did they send you?”

“Er…” She avoids your gaze and reaches up to her ear; when her fingers reach her earlobe she withdraws them quickly and proceeds to bury her hands deep into her sweatshirt’s pockets. Judging by the size of the garment, it belongs to Mal. “Um…” Her eyes dart to the door and then to you, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other several times, making it look like she's readying herself to sprint.

“Tamina,” you reproach.

She makes a face.

“Come on, mister Coach.” She rubs her calf with her foot. “What do you want me to do here? I respect you and you know how thankful I am to you for everything, but Mal’s my fiancé.”

You’re taken aback for a second. It looks like your concerns will have to wait a few minutes. “Since when?”

The Tambourine shrugs and gestures towards the door. “Can I get Mal for this? We should be telling this together.” Her mouth twitches from her efforts to keep herself from grinning, and she practically skips towards the house. She comes back not a minute later, holding Mal’s hand and beaming. What makes you smile, however, is how happy Mal looks as well.

“Tam says that she gave you the news?” Mal says, sounding rather relieved.

“I asked her a question and she avoided it by telling me that you’re her fiancé,” you say, giving the Tambourine a reproaching look. “So now I want to know more.”

It’s Mal’s turn to make a face. He gives the Tambourine a betrayed look, to which she answers with an apologetic one. He sighs. She cups her hands and extends them towards him. Mal searches his pockets and takes out several bracelets that he deposits in the Tambourine’s hands.

You watch the silent exchange with interest.

“We’d been talking about marriage for a while,” Mal says as the Tambourine puts on her bracelets. He smiles as they start clinking against each other, “but I finally asked her a couple of weeks ago.”

“It was lovely,” the Tambourine says, smiling, and once again extending her hands towards Mal, who once again searches through his pockets.

“We wanted to share it with everyone…” Mal takes out a pair of golden earrings shaped like leaves and hands them to the Tambourine.

“...we were going to invite the guys, you, and some of my friends.” She continues the sentence as she puts on the earrings, which swing from side to side when she moves her head.

“Don’t forget my sister,” Mal says, mock chastising.

“I was counting her among my friends!” She says it too dramatically for it to sound like she’s actually indignant.

Mal laughs. “And our moms, of course,” he adds. “But then this thing with Ernie’s dad happened and we didn’t think it was the right time to give the news.”

The Tambourine puts an arm around Mal’s waist and leans against him. “We’re in no hurry, so it doesn’t matter.”

Finally, they’re still. You look at them for a moment, processing the news. You might have forgotten about the world when you were with Ray, but the world had kept going, the people in it had kept living, and Mal and the Tambourine had decided to add paperwork to their relationship. You think they'll be happy together.

"I assume your mothers, and your sister," you tilt your head at Mal, "already know?"

The Tambourine nods. Mal leans away from her hair until she stops moving.

You smile softly at them, fond and proud. "In that case, allow me to be the first friend to congratulate you."

You shake Mal's hand. The Tambourine takes your other hand between both of hers and shakes it.

After they've let go of you, you clear your throat and look at them seriously. It’s been enough minutes.

You cross your arms in front of your chest. "I'm happy for you, but the good news haven't made me forget what I asked you earlier, Tam."

The Tambourine's smile freezes. Mal twists his mouth.

"What did you ask her, exactly?"

The Tambourine turns her head slightly towards the door.

"If you’d sent her to keep an eye on me," you say conversationally.

Mal smiles apologetically. "We asked her to keep you company."

You sigh. "What's going on, Mal? You and the boys have been acting strange today."

Mal lowers his eyes. The Tambourine raises her hand.

"Shouldn't they also be here to talk?" she asks.

"There’s no need for that, I think." You point at the door. "I only want to know what mess you've gotten yourselves into."

"No mess, Coach, I promise you," Mal says seriously.

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Then I want to know what you’re planning.”

“We aren’t planning anything.” Mal shakes his head and looks almost solemn as he says that. “We’ve learned our lesson.”

“I can vouch for them, mister Coach,” the Tambourine says, sounding reproaching. “You really think I’d help Mal get in trouble again?” Her head is tilted upwards, proudly. “I want a future with him.” As if to emphasize her point, she reaches for the hand that’s currently resting on her shoulder and loops one of her fingers with one of Mal’s.

You exhale heavily and study her face, trying to find any hint that she’s lying to you.

Without considering the hair, the Tambourine looks like the idea of a girl - a bunch of pieces that were put together and that everybody would identify as ‘female’ if they looked at the final product, but who nobody bothered assembling in a way that would make her stand out. She barely reaches Mal’s shoulder, barely fills the clothes she wears, to the point you’ve wondered if she might get blown away by a strong breeze, and she barely leaves an impression in the mind when you first look at her. Her figure will never turn heads and her face looks like an unfinished sketch: thin pale lips, a small nose, thin eyebrows, short eyelashes, brown round eyes that don’t look at the world in a particularly memorable way. That might be the reason she decided to fill the world with noise, to wear dozens of metal bracelets that tell everyone around that she’s moving, to hang so many keychains from her backpack that their weight must take a toll on her posture, to laugh loudly and clap her hands when she’s excited. That might also be the reason why she wears her colorful headbands and why her hair never seems to be under control when she isn’t working. The Tambourine saw herself and demanded that the world saw her as well.

What you see now is the gradual change of her expression from confident towards challenging and offended. It almost makes you feel ashamed.

“Then what is it? If you aren’t in trouble,” you say to Mal, “why have you spent the entire day keeping tabs on me?”

The Tambourine moves up her hand to hold the one that Mal has on her shoulder and rests her head against his chest.

Mal exhales heavily. "I think you should talk to all of us, Coach. But I can promise you it's nothing bad and that we don't want to get you in trouble again."

The Tambourine clears her throat.

"We don't want to get ourselves in trouble either," Mal adds.

"So you weren't keeping tabs on me for a bad reason," you say slowly.

Mal nods.

The boys had been watching you and had convinced the Tambourine to help them with that. They insist they aren't planning anything. You hold Mal's gaze and you think you find concern under all the seriousness and discomfort. You have an idea of what's going on.

You take off your glasses and run a hand over your face, sighing. Good boys, all of them. Yours as much as you're theirs.

If you could ask for anything right now, it'd be to go home without it looking like you're running away.

You look at Mal again, then at the door, and put on your glasses.

Fine. "I guess we should talk." Let's get this over with.

The Tambourine detaches herself from Mal and gestures with her head towards the house.

"I'll get the others."

"Thanks, Tam," Mal says, smiling apologetically at her.

She shakes her head dismissively and takes one of his hands, pressing a quick kiss to it. "I love you. See you later."

Mal’s smile becomes fond. "I love you too."

The Tambourine goes into the house, leaving you and Mal in awkward silence.

Mal hides his hands behind his back and looks at everything but you. You bury your hands in your pockets and wonder at what point these kids took it upon themselves to take care of you.

“What were those numbers you kept showing each other?” you ask him.

“Numbers?” He frowns.

“In the kitchen and in the living room, Tam kept signaling numbers to you and the others.”

“Ah, those,” Mal says, nodding and looking pensive.

Before Mal can decide how to answer your question, Ernie whistles from the door and signals for you to come in.

He guides you and Mal towards his bedroom, where the rest of the boys have gathered, and gestures for you to take the only chair in the room.

“No, thanks,” you say, leaning against the wardrobe.

Ernie shrugs and loses his chair to Primetime, who pulls it towards himself and plops down on it before Ernie can react. That leads to Ernie using Primetime’s shoulder as an armrest.

The others take over Ernie’s bed: Benny sits cross-legged on one end of it, Jim lies down on his side and props himself up on an elbow, and Mal sits at the edge of the mattress.

Only a few steps separate you from the chair, and you could cover the distance to the foot of the bed in a second.

“Couldn’t we have done this at your parents’ room?” Benny asks, trying to make himself comfortable without hitting Jim’s legs.

“It’s off limits,” Ernie says, giving him a reproaching look.

You clear your throat and cross your arms in front of your chest.

“Will you tell me why you’ve been watching me the entire day?” you say once all eyes are on you.

The boys exchange looks with each other, a chain of silent messages that ends with Ernie and Primetime looking at each other, Ernie gesturing with his head at Primetime and Primetime nodding and leaning forward in the chair towards you, momentarily making Ernie lose his balance and forcing him to stand straight.

“Mauricio texted us last night,” Primetime says. His elbows are resting on his knees and his fingers are interlaced. “He said you looked odd and he wanted to know if anything happened.” He looks up at you seriously, worried and questioning. “So we decided to keep an eye on you.”

You put your hands in your pockets. “I see.”

“Yeah.”

Nobody seems to know what to add, and you don’t know what you can say that won’t lead to talking about Ray.

“You asked earlier about those signs Tam was doing in the kitchen?” Mal says.

The rest of the boys look relieved that he broke the silence.

“Yes,” you say. “What was that about?”

“She was giving us an idea of your mood.” Mal licks his lips. “From one to five, how well you looked.”

“It was more like a misery-meter,” Benny says.

You give him an unimpressed look.

“If it helps,” Mal says, “we asked her to keep track of Ernie’s mood too.”

“You did?” Ernie asks, giving Mal a surprised look.

“We were worried about you,” Jim says. “We know that these days haven’t been easy.”

Ernie blinks and looks to the ground. “Thanks, guys.” He clears his throat and points at you. “We were talking about Coach, remember?”

They all look at each other.

“Sorry, Coach. We’re not used to this,” Primetime says, gesturing around.

“This?” you say flatly.

Primetime hesitates, but manages to sound matter-of-factly when he clarifies, “Staging an intervention.”

You briefly entertain the fantasy of yelling your way out of this situation, but all it does is make you feel guilty for imagining it.

Maybe you could pretend you don’t understand why they’re doing this? Except that it’s obvious to anyone that looks at you that you're miserable, and they’re trying to help. It wouldn't be right.

“Why an intervention and not just asking me how I'm doing?” They look uncomfortable when you make eye contact with them.

“Because…” Benny starts. “Well…” He looks around the room. “Okay, who’s gonna say it?”

“You started,” Jim says, while the others nod.

Benny looks pained when he turns towards you. He steels himself and says, “Did you have a fight with Mr. Smith?”

You straighten your back, press yourself against the wardrobe and stare at Benny, eyes wide and lips parted even though you have nothing to say.

“The only other time we’ve seen you like this was that day Jim broke your nose,” Benny adds. “Then Jim saw you and Mr. Smith kissing in your office and the next day you were fine again.”

“Sorry, Coach,” Jim says, looking ashamed. “I was surprised and didn’t know what to do.”

"So you told everyone?" you ask him, still too surprised to be properly upset.

“Don’t worry, we haven’t told anyone else,” Mal says.

“You didn’t tell the Tambourine?” Primetime says, skeptical.

“She’s my partner in crime,” Mal mutters, looking to the floor.

“But nobody else besides the Tambourine knows,” Jim tries to reassure you. The others nod.

You aren’t really listening to them. They know. They’ve known for five months.

“Why didn’t you ever mention it?” you ask quietly.

“We talked about it and we thought you didn’t want us to know you were dating,” Benny says. “We were happy that you were happy.”

Happy. They thought Ray made you happy.

What makes you close your eyes and take a deep breath to ground yourself is that they were right.

“We weren’t dating,” you say when you open your eyes.

“Are you sure?” Mal asks. “Nobody looks like that when they fight with a… hmm… with… what were you?”

“Come on, Mal, you know what he’s implying,” Ernie chastises.

“We didn’t fight,” you say. You don’t think it’s a lie, despite the argument you had with Ray. The fight isn’t the reason why it’s over.

“Then why do you look so sad?”

You rub your forehead and lower your eyes. “I’m not going to discuss this with you, boys.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” You scoff and lower your hand. “I told all of you that getting involved with Ray was a bad idea.” And you went and did it for seven months, with pleasure and no regard for the consequences. “I’m not keen on discussing my hypocrisy with you.”

Ernie frowns. Everybody else looks puzzled as well.

“Coach?” Primetime says, finally leaning back on the chair. His hands remain clasped. Ernie once again starts using him as an armrest. "Do you think… Do you think you let us down?"

You hadn't allowed yourself to think about it in those terms. Trust the boys to force you into uncomfortable honesty.

"I'm sorry," you tell him. You look around at the rest of them and say it again, hoping your tone and expression convey at least a fraction of how much you regret the danger you put them in by associating with Ray, how you betrayed their trust by going against what you said was right.

"Come on, Coach, what are you sorry for?" Ernie says, almost soft. "We told you once that we wanted you to be happy."

"And that we didn't think that dating a gangster was the same as being one," Jim adds.

"It's dangerous," you point out. "Being involved with someone like Ray can only end badly." _That_ is definitely a lie.

"Is that why you broke up with him?" Mal asks.

"We weren't dating."

Mal only gives you a doubtful look instead of replying.

"It's better not to get involved in gang business," you say. "Someone can get hurt." And that one is a half truth. Most of the time, gangsters are people with horrible jobs and horribly normal lives on the side. You don't go after someone's family when you can deal with the guy himself instead. There's still a target painted on your back, but not one as big as might be expected.

"Nah, Coach," Primetime says, shaking his head. "Mr. Smith wouldn't let that happen."

You look at him questioningly. He shrugs with one shoulder. "Remember when you yelled at us?"

"Which time?"

Someone - you think it's Benny - stiffles a laugh. Primetime doesn't seem to notice.

"After you had dinner with Mickey Pearson."

"I remember."

"You said we were lucky Mr. Smith had asked his boss to leave us alone." He sniffs and shrugs again. "If he went and saved us from his boss when he wasn't dating you, he'd probably do a lot more now that he likes you."

The rest of the boys nod, except for Jim, who's still lying down and opts for giving a thumbs up.

He's probably right.

He seems to take your silence for doubt, so he continues. "He agreed to the three favors condition, so we know he has a code. He wouldn’t expect you to deal with his messes." Lightly, he adds, "And he has money and contacts… He could talk or pay our way out of any trouble other gangsters might bring us."

Ernie gives him an unimpressed look, Jim winces, Mal covers his face with a hand and Benny groans. You only stare.

"What did you just say?"

Primetime makes a face. "I was joking."

“I know that.” You make a sharp gesture with a hand. “But you’re right. He probably could.”

Primetime laughs awkwardly. “The only one that could do more is Pearson himself.”

You swallow and close your eyes.

"Coach?"

You raise a hand. "Give me a moment, son."

On Friday, Ray had talked about influence and contacts. He'd seemed confused when you said that he'd endangered himself for Pearson. He'd smiled that small and self-deprecating smile that said he thought he wasn't enough, the one that spoke of resignation, of _surrender_. He hadn't answered your questions, like he always does to avoid lying to you.

"Fuck," you say quietly.

You'd told him to find something to love and to devote himself to it, never imagining that he might have already done it.

When you open your eyes, you find the boys looking at you sympathetically. Mal and Primetime look sad.

You’ve slept like shit for two nights, you miss Ray like you miss your naivety, and you hate yourself for how precisely you hurt him. You hate how stupid you were to end up in love again.

You should have taken the chair.

"Still…" You lick your lips. "Nothing guarantees that Ray himself wouldn't have hurt us." That he wouldn't have hurt you, used you, sacrificed you for his goals - love is fleeting, while ambition is a lifelong commitment.

The shift in the general mood is so fast that it almost startles you. Sympathy is replaced for wariness, and the lethargy your sadness had brought into the room is gone in a second to leave your boys alert and ready.

“Did he say something, Coach?” Primetime says, resting his hands on his knees and leaning forward again. “Threaten you, or something?”

You blink. “No, he didn’t.”

“Did he imply anything?” Jim asks, finally sitting up. It’s hard to see him, because Mal covers him.

“No.”

“Make you feel unsafe in any way?” Jim continues, crawling to the edge of the bed. “There are a lot of ways to make someone feel bad.” He climbs down from the bed and stands up. “Insults, jabs, passive-aggressive behavior…”

Everybody in the room is giving him surprised looks.

“How come you know so much about that?” Ernie asks. Primetime nods, clearly wanting to know the same.

Jim gestures vaguely with a hand. “You know that neighbor that sells me lunch? She didn’t know I was a fighter and started giving me brochures on abusive relationships.”

Primetime raises a hand and moves it around, like he’s expecting to catch an answer to his questions. “And you read it?”

"It seemed rude not to?" Jim rubs the back of his head. "She kinda sees me like a grandson, I felt like I had to.”

“That’s… oddly cute,” Benny says.

Jim glares at him before continuing, “Anyway, Coach, why do you think Smith could have hurt you?”

You’re not talking about that. It’s not about Ray as much as it’s about your history, and that’s nobody’s business but yours.

You shake your head, as much to emphasize your point as to keep your thoughts away from old mistakes and even older bruises. “I said he could hurt all of us.”

“Yes, and that includes you,” Jim says seriously. “What makes you think he could hurt you?”

All eyes are on you, pinning you to the wardrobe with their concern and anxiousness. There are questions in their gazes, their clenched fists announce bad decisions, and their postures speak of protection, of willingness to take a bullet if it came down to it. To take a bullet _for you_.

You open your mouth and find that you don’t know what to tell them.

“Coach?”

It shouldn’t be like this. You should be the one worrying about them, the one readying himself for sacrifice. That’s your job.

Isn't that exactly what Ray said you shouldn’t do? It's the sort of reasoning that would have made him narrow his eyes and study you, and which would have led to him brushing your forehead with his fingertips before spending long minutes kissing you, touching you, making you feel wanted and letting you know that he cared.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “He never did anything wrong.” You bury a hand in your hair. “That’s the problem; I should be scared of him and I’m not.”

It’s only when you say it that you realize it’s true. You’re scared of how you feel around him, of what you'd do for him and you're scared of what might happen to him, but of Ray himself? Ray had always looked at you like you were worth something. He'd touched you carefully unless you'd asked him not to, and then he'd caressed the bruises that he'd left on your hips, your legs, your back. Ray had teased you and bickered with you, and judged you because that's what he does, and he'd still managed to make you feel wanted, unquestioned, accepted.

The boys exchange looks and turn towards you again.

It’s Ernie who says, “You’re not telling us that to keep us from doing something rash, are you?”

It startles a laugh out of you. “No, Ernie. Mal said you’d learned your lesson.”

They all study you for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether or not they believe you.

“Then what’s the problem, Coach?” Ernie asks. “He never hurt you, he kept us all safe, he made you happy…”

“You mean, what’s the problem besides him being a gangster?” you say flatly. It's still a bad idea, no matter what. Lowering your guard around Ray, around anyone, can only lead to pain.

Ernie lowers his eyes.

You expect one of the boys to try to convince you again, and you ready yourself to hear the same arguments until they get tired, but Mal stands up and stretches, bringing everyone’s attention to himself.

“You know what you want, Coach,” he says, scratching his ear. “And you know what you’re comfortable with.”

“Mal, what are you doing?” Benny asks, moving his hands to emphasize his question.

“Come on, guys. Coach has already told us that Mr. Smith is a gangster and that he thinks that isn’t safe. Our opinion won’t change his mind, right?”

You don't think anybody's looking at Mal with more surprise than you, but you make an effort to recover quickly and take advantage of the opening.

“Right,” you say, pushing yourself away from the wardrobe. “I messed up by going to Ray and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I put you all in danger. I promise you that I’ll do better from now on.” Jim looks ready to say something, so you raise a hand to stop him. “We won’t talk about this any longer. Let’s go back to the living room.”

Nobody seems happy about it, and their dissatisfaction only grows when Mal exits the room.

You leave after him, unwilling to watch the rest of the boys try to salvage their attempt at an intervention. It feels like running away, especially because you spend the rest of the afternoon avoiding them.

* * *

Monday morning brings exhaustion, because once again you were unable to sleep properly, and a basketful of muffins, courtesy of the Tambourine.

You stare at the food on your desk and slowly move your eyes up to silently demand an explanation from Mal.

“I told everything to Tam when we got home,” he says, and doesn’t seem affected by your judging stare. “She’s my partner in crime, Coach. The last time I kept a secret from her, we ended up in the Pearson mess.”

You sigh and take a muffin. “Vegan?”

“Probably.” He takes a muffin as well.

You bite into your own muffin. Blueberry. You don’t want to think about how much time and money she spent on this gesture.

“You’re here to tell me something, aren’t you?” you say, gesturing towards the chair in front of your desk.

Mal nods and sits down. “I think I want to ask you something, Coach?” he says slowly.

"You think?"

"I'm not sure if I should ask."

You gesture for him to continue.

“Yesterday, during the conversation about Mr. Smith…” He trails off.

“Yes, Mal?”

“I don’t know, really. A lot of things were said and I felt we were getting nowhere, but I’m not sure…” He takes another bite of his muffin and chews slowly. “I felt that you were thinking about something. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Didn’t you have a question?”

“I really don't know if it’s my place to ask.” He twists his mouth. “I... I got the impression that there was a lot you weren't telling us."

"Mal..."

"Look, Coach... Let's just say that I'm the only one around here in a long-term relationship." He raises his muffin and smiles, privately amused. "I'm the only one with some experience on love and romance, and I think you need to think about everything a bit more."

You raise an eyebrow. Mal keeps eating.

"Thanks for giving me an out yesterday," you say after a moment.

Mal hums in acknowledgment.

You decide to keep eating as well.

* * *

The box arrives at lunchtime.

You’re about to head out to get something to eat when Jim knocks on your office door and stands there, slightly swaying from side to side and looking at you anxiously.

“Yes?” you ask him, dreading whatever it is that has made him so reluctant to come to see you.

“One of Pearson’s thugs is looking for you, Coach,” he says slowly. “He says he has something for you.”

You don’t know if your legs feel weak from hunger or from fear.

“Tell him to come in.”

Jim nods and leaves.

Just in case it was hunger, you grab a muffin and take a bite that you can’t swallow.

You take off your glasses and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to focus on that single painful spot instead of on the mess that is your head.

“Hi, Coach,” Bunny says from the door. He’s carrying a large cardboard box. Unmarked.

“Hi, Bunny.” You gesture towards your desk and the free chair in front of it. “Come in.”

He steps into the office and looks around. “Where should I put this?”

“Anywhere is fine.”

He sets it down on the desk, next to the muffin basket, which he studies with obvious curiosity.

“Feel free to take one,” you say, standing up. “They’re probably vegan.”

“Probably?” Bunny gives you a puzzled look.

You shrug dismissively. You don’t think Bunny actually cares about the Tambourine’s bizarre relationship with vegan cuisine. Ray had been initially bemused and then greatly amused by your attempts to explain it to him.

Bunny takes a bite off a muffin. “This is good,” he says, surprised. “Where did you buy it?”

“Mal’s girlfriend makes them.” When Bunny takes a closer look at the basket, you add, “You can take another one if you want.”

“I will, thanks,” he says. You make a mental note to let the Tambourine know how well-received her muffins were.

Bunny taps on the box and forces you to stop ignoring it.

“Did Ray send it?” you ask, noting how it’s been carefully sealed.

Bunny nods. “He said I should stay until you opened it, as a show of good faith.”

You frown and stare at Bunny for a moment. “What, does he think I’m expecting a bomb?”

“Maybe.” Bunny shrugs with one shoulder.

The idea is so absurd that you can’t help but laugh. “That’s not how Ray does things,” you say, shaking your head.

“No, it isn’t.” Bunny taps on the box again and lets his hand fall.

You put a hand on the box and scratch it with a nail, unwilling to do more. You think you know what’s inside, and you don’t want any company for when you finally dare to look at it.

“Did he say anything else?” you ask.

“No.” There’s no sympathy in the word. There isn’t any ill will in it either. It’s only a fact, a simple answer to your simple question.

You breathe in slowly. You want to ask him how Ray’s doing, you want to know if he’s sleeping well, you want to know if he managed to find those buttons you accidentally ripped out on Friday.

“Thank you, Bunny.”

You don't know what he knows, and you're not giving him anything.

Bunny takes his second muffin and heads for the door. “Goodbye, Coach.”

You put the box on the floor and leave for lunch. It can wait.

* * *

Even though it doesn’t contain any explosives, you think of the box as a timebomb. It sits there innocently, like it doesn’t represent the end of what you didn’t get to have with Ray, and you wonder what would hurt less in the long run: opening it or throwing it away.

To your credit, you don’t try to forget the box. You think about it on your way out, you think about it as you eat, and you think about it on the way back to the gym.

No matter what you do, you’re out of Ray’s life; you owe him, and yourself, to be brave enough to open the box and try to get some closure in the process.

Once in the gym you head straight for your office, not paying attention to Ernie’s calls as you pass him.

You close the door, put the box on your desk and open it, promising yourself that you won’t let it affect you.

On top, inside resealable bags and neatly protected by bubble wrap, you find all your toiletries, the ones you'd bought doubles of to keep at Ray's place. You set them aside on your desk.

Next come all the clothes you left at his house throughout the months, the t-shirts, the trousers ("I told you I don't only wear tracksuits," you’d said, and Ray had raised his hands in mock surrender), underwear and socks. You distantly note that he re-folded your socks in that way the Japanese lady said they should be folded and that you never bothered learning.

You don’t remember everything you ever left at Ray’s place, but you’re certain that he put it all in the box, that he made sure to remove every trace of you from his house, until all that was left were memories. Knowing him, he spent the weekend cleaning, polishing and reorganizing, indulging the fantasy that ghosts can be swept away as easily as dirt and dust.

What was it he’d said, back when you’d first asked him about his feelings for Pearson? He’d said he was 'working on it'. He’d smiled, self-deprecating and resigned, and his longing had haunted you throughout the entirety of your arrangement. You’d wondered how anyone would willingly keep himself from having Ray.

Look at you now.

You’re Ray’s new problem. You’re the idiot that threw away his chance. You still don’t feel brave enough to be what he needs.

As you rummage through your clothes, you notice something blue at the bottom of the box.

_He didn’t._

You reach deep into the box and grab the item. It's soft. It feels like wool.

You pull out the garment, not caring about what falls out of the box as you do.

_He did._

It's the blue sweater.

You run your hands over it, letting the wool tickle your palms.

You bring it to your nose and don’t find any trace of Ray's smell.

You set it down on the desk and sit on the chair, putting your head in your hands.

You love him, and it has ruined you. You gave him everything, even your mental peace, and apparently he went and took your common sense and your sanity as well, because there’s a part of you that believes you could be happy together. You want to go to him and see how much you have ruined him in turn, if the reason you don’t feel empty is because Ray gave you everything he had in exchange for what you offered to him.

A knock on the door drags you out of your thoughts. The door opens before you can regain your composure.

“Coach?” Ernie says, staring at you from the threshold with wide eyes.

You look at the clothes scattered on the desk and try to imagine how much of a mess you look like right now.

“Can you call the others?” you say as you stand up.

“Are you okay, Coach?” Ernie asks, not moving from his spot.

“I’ve been sleeping like shit, so not really.” You start folding the sweater. “Will you get the others, Ernie?”

When he keeps watching you, you make a shooing motion and refuse to look at him. You keep yourself busy until his return by putting everything back in the box.

* * *

Like Ernie’s room, your office wasn’t meant to have six grown men in it, but you all manage to fit. You stay sitting behind your desk and watch them shuffle around the office, figuring out where to stand, and once everyone seems to have found a spot, you offer them muffins.

“The Tambourine made them,” you say as Benny takes one.

“Are they vegan?” Jim asks, taking the basket.

Mal sighs. “Probably.”

After everyone has grabbed a snack, the basket returns to your desk. The distraction didn’t give you enough time to properly think about what you have to say.

You clear your throat and set your hands on your desk. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday.” You catch Mal hiding a smile by biting into the muffin. He’s lucky this is too important to be derailed just to call him out. “You were worried about me and I didn’t know what to do with that.”

“It’s alright, Coach,” Ernie says. “We shouldn’t have meddled.”

You shake your head. “No, Ernie. It’s not fine. You care about me and…” You take a deep breath. “I know what to do when others need me, I know how to take charge of a situation, but I don’t know what to do when others think I need help.”

You can see on their faces that they want to agree with you, but don’t know how to say it (or if they should).

“It’s how I’ve done things since I was your age,” you continue. “It’s worked out for me so far, but it’s not fair to you.” You lean forward slightly. “I _am_ sorry for getting involved with Ray after saying I wouldn’t, because I did it without thinking of what might happen.”

“Does this mean you’re going to date him again?” Mal asks.

“We weren’t dating.” Mal looks doubtful, so you continue before he can say anything else. “We never talked about what we were doing and when we had the chance I did the same thing I did yesterday. I- I don’t know what to do when someone says they care about me.”

Benny cautiously raises his hand.

“Yes?”

“There isn’t really anything to do, Coach,” he says, gesturing vaguely with the hand in which he’s holding his muffin. “You just let them do it.”

You huff a laugh at that. “Benny, seven months ago you tried to kill Mickey Pearson for me. We were lucky that it didn’t end badly.” You take a deep breath and look at them seriously. “It scares me to think of what else you might do because you care about me.”

It scares you to think what Ray might do for you. What you might do for him.

“You decide for yourselves what to do, but I don’t want any of you in danger. Gangster business…” You shake your head. “I dealt with gangster business when I was younger. It’s not the sort of life I want for any of you.”

The boys exchange looks among themselves and finally gesture for Ernie to talk. He eats a bit before doing so.

“We had some suspicions,” Ernie says seriously. “Like it was more than common sense that told you what to do about Pearson.”

“We talked among ourselves,” Jim says. “After we tried to kill Pearson.” He stares at his muffin and doesn’t look up when he adds, “We saw why you didn’t want us to get involved with all that.”

You can only look at him, unsure of what to say.

“You’re the one that killed the Russians, right?” you finally say, just to fill the silence.

Jim nods. You won’t apologize to them for their own decisions, but you still wish you could do something.

“It’s not your fault, Coach,” Jim says softly, finally looking at you. “We decided to do it and we’re dealing with it.”

“Still?” you say quietly.

“It was a lot.” He licks his lips. “We didn’t want to tell you because…” He tosses the muffin from one hand to the other. “We knew that you were worried about us, and we didn’t want to worry you more.”

You take off your glasses and lean back in your chair, smiling sadly. “And I’m here trying not to make you worry about me.”

Some of the boys laugh at that, awkward and pained.

“We should have talked sooner,” you say, hating yourself for not approaching them before. You should have asked them how they were doing.

“We’ll do better next time,” Jim says.

“Don’t let there be a next time,” you warn, but you can’t help but smile a bit, ruining the effect your tone would have had.

This time, the general laughter sounds more genuine, and you think they'll be fine.

“What are you going to do now, Coach?” Primetime’s judging voice cuts through the fragile peace you’d achieved and brings everyone’s attention to him.

You put on your glasses again. “Ray deserves an apology,” you say, resigned. “I’ll try to talk to him and end things properly.”

Primetime’s look remains judging. “And what if things don’t end?”

“I don’t think that’s a possibility.” You don’t want to think of it being a possibility.

Primetime crosses his arms in front of his chest. A part of your brain worries about the muffin he’s still holding. “What if it is? What if he says he wants to date you? You’re always telling us to think about everything, Coach. You can’t go to see him expecting only one outcome.”

"I left him." _I ran away._ "He won't-" _He doesn't - he can't - want me back._ "It's over."

"You don't know that."

You study him. You’re not the only one in the room looking at him curiously; it makes you wonder what he’s thinking of, what it is that he has gone through that’s made him judge you for this.

For that, he deserves your honesty. “You're right, Primetime." You exhale heavily. "But I don’t know what’s right.”

“What’s right is for you to never see him again, since you say he's dangerous.” Next to Primetime, Ernie stares at him like he doesn’t recognize him. “But it’d also have been right if you’d called the cops on me when we met, or to leave us to deal with the Pearson mess on our own to teach us a lesson.” Primetime scratches the bridge of his nose. “What do you want, Coach? That’s what this is about.” He gestures towards everyone. “If you want our permission, you've had it for months.”

You look at all of them in turn.

“Really, Coach,” Primetime says, finally relaxing. “If things go wrong because of the gangster stuff…” He shrugs. “We knew it could happen and we’ll figure it out.”

The others nod. You wonder if they’d feel the same if they knew that you’ve killed for Ray, that the sort of trouble he can bring is worse than what they’ve already dealt with.

Then again, they're smarter than you give them credit for. They might know more than you think and, well, they're an excuse, aren't they? You weren't thinking about them at the beginning, you can't blame them for the end. It's always been about what you want, about how you were drawn to Ray despite what your common sense told you.

You sigh. “We’ll see what happens.”

You know exactly what you'll do. It’s good to know that someone will care this time around if everything goes wrong.

* * *

As much as you would have liked to go to Ray immediately and finally get all of this over with, you know he won’t be home until night, which forces you to find something to do with yourself for the rest of the day. You spend as much time as you can in the gym, then you go to get something to eat and arrange for someone to cover for you tomorrow, and finally you go to your flat to take a shower and put on something nicer than a tracksuit. Ray won’t be happy to see you, the very least you can do is wear something he won’t mind looking at.

Jeans and a shirt should be fine. Not _the_ shirt, though; that one will stay in your wardrobe until Mal’s wedding.

Once you’re ready to go out, you sit on the bed and call him, a part of you still hoping he blocked your number.

He picks up after only a few rings and doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

The seconds pass and all you hear is his breathing.

“Don't hang up," you manage to say. “Please, don’t hang up,” you add softly.

After a moment, he says, "I won't." Toneless, detached, and cold.

"Thank you." You close your eyes. “Are you home now?”

“Yes.”

More silence. What is he doing right now? Making dinner? Checking finance reports for Pearson? Reviewing everybody's backgrounds, trying to pick a good consigliere for when he takes over? You picture him at his desk, squinting at his laptop from behind his glasses, frowning in annoyance when the phone rang and interrupted him. Had his lip curled in a grimace when he'd seen it was you calling? Had he believed that sending the box would put be the end?

“I got the box.”

“Did I forget something?”

“I don’t think so.” You swallow. “Why did you send the sweater?”

A pause.

“It doesn’t feel mine anymore.” You hear the resignation in Ray’s voice and it makes you want to hold him. Quietly, so that you have to strain to hear him, he says, “It smells like you.”

Something like a laugh escapes you, too broken to be truly amused.

You push up your glasses and press on your eyes with your thumb and forefinger until there are bright spots behind your eyelids.

"I need to talk to you," you say, with a calm you don’t feel. "Can I come over and see you?"

"Right now?"

“Yes.” He'll hate that. He hates surprises.

The silence is reassuring. At least he's considering it.

"I’ll be waiting. Have you eaten?”

You smile fondly at that. “Yes, I have.”

“Actual food or a sandwich?” he chastises.

“Does it matter?”

He exhales heavily. “I guess it doesn’t.”

You open your eyes. “See you soon, Ray.”

You decide to take the remaining muffins with you.

* * *

The drive to Ray’s house is spent trying to keep yourself from turning back home. You knock on his door before you have time to think about what you’re doing.

The seconds you spend waiting for him to open the door feel eternal, but every thought that had been running through your head vanishes as soon as you see Ray’s face.

“You shaved,” you say, instead of telling him that he looks terrible. There are bags under his eyes, his tie’s knot is loose and his shirt’s collar is unbuttoned. He rolled up his sleeves carelessly. And yes, he shaved, and it makes his exhaustion more apparent.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. A shower and clean clothes can't hide that you've slept like shit three nights in a row.

“I did.” He licks his lips and steps back to let you into his house. He’s wearing dark jeans. You haven’t seen him in jeans since before you started fucking. You haven’t seen him so disheveled since you saved his life. You haven't seen him so lost since that fight you had five months ago.

It's not a stretch to believe this is your fault.

You take off your shoes and lift the basket, trying to feel in control of something. “The Tambourine made muffins.”

“Probably vegan, then,” Ray says, taking the basket from your hands and looking inside.

_He remembers._

It takes you a second to find your voice. "Probably, yes."

“What type?”

“Blueberry.”

He nods and looks up at you. He opens his mouth, but doesn't speak immediately. “I’ll put on the kettle.”

You follow him to the kitchen, staying a few steps behind to keep yourself from doing something stupid, like reaching for him.

"I'm making tea for myself," he says as he takes out the cups. "It's rather late for coffee."

You've never seen him drinking coffee. You almost laugh at his attempt to suggest you drink tea as well.

"Yes, it is," you say, getting out the sugar. "I'll have some tea as well."

It's when you set the sugar on the table and find Ray staring at you that you remember that you no longer have the right to be comfortable in his house.

"What are you doing here?" He doesn't bother hiding his annoyance and exhaustion. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

You swallow. He watches you for a moment and turns towards the kettle, standing in that way he does when he's trying to take control of a situation: back straight, shoulders thrown back, head tall. Unfortunately, his clothes are still a mess, and all he accomplishes is to make you want to take him away from here and let him sleep for a week. You don’t have to go far, leaving London should be enough.

You itch to remove his tie, to trail your fingers up his neck to cup his face and trace the lines on his forehead until he relaxes, to hold him and press your lips to his temple.

You can still leave. You can simply apologize and then tell him that you should never see each other again, there’s no need to give him what's left of yourself. As long as you don’t let him tell you how he feels, you have a chance to get out of here.

You close your eyes and lean against the kitchen table, holding onto it to force yourself to stay where you are.

You open your eyes when the water boils and find Ray watching you, leaning against the counter, holding tightly onto it. The downwards curve of his mouth speaks of sadness, the way his eyes are fixed on your face speaks of longing. He used to look at Pearson like this.

"Why are you here?" he asks again, this time carefully.

“I want to apologize,” you say.

Ray blinks. “You don’t have to do that.”

You shake your head. ”It’s not about me. It’s what you deserve.”

He licks his lips and clenches his jaw. You want him to tell you to get lost, to save you from what you’re here to do, but instead he prepares two cups of tea and leads you to the dining room, where he sets the cups on opposite ends of the table.

Message received.

Before sitting down, he fixes his sleeves and his collar. He removes the tie and wraps it around his left hand, tight enough that he winces, and it's hard not to stand up and try to loosen the tie. The only reason you don't do it is because your presence must be worse than anything he could do to himself.

When he sits down, he almost looks like the version of himself that deals with business, the one that sat with his back turned towards you at the pub an eternity ago and held your life in his hands. In a way, he still does.

“So,” he starts, setting his hands on the table and staring at you. “What are you apologizing for? Running away?” He almost smiles at that, the corner of his mouth twitching. He doesn’t try to hide the hurt in his eyes.

“Yes. Among other things,” you say, leaning forward and maintaining eye contact. You know what you did. You won’t escape.

He scoffs. “Didn’t you say once that you weren’t the running away type?” He should have sounded mocking or challenging, but all you hear is sadness.

You swallow. “I was wrong.”

Ray inhales deeply and breathes out slowly. “You could have said goodbye.”

“I’m sorry.”

He clenches his jaw and watches you for a moment. “You said you loved me.” You won’t look away from him. “Are you sorry about that too?”

_Yes._

You bite your tongue. Your silence gives you away.

"Not in the way you think," you say. "I wasn't supposed to say it like that."

He barely raises an eyebrow. "Were you planning to say it?"

"I came here that day to do that." He looks at you skeptically. "I was going to end our arrangement because of how I felt for you." He tears his gaze away for a second. "I thought you had the right to know."

"To know what? That not even being in love with me is enough for someone to want to be with me?" He lets out a quick, humorless sound. "I already knew you were going to end things between us, there was no need to make it worse." He states it so plainly that for a moment it makes you wonder if he actually feels anything about that, if there's anything besides a bruised ego at play here, if you were wrong and Ray never cared about you. It'd be so easy if that was the case.

Then you see the tie wrapped around his hand.

"I was going to tell you because I didn't want you thinking it was your fault." You lick your lips. "You loved Pearson and he wouldn't have you, and I… I needed you to know that the problem wasn't you, but that I’d been stupid enough to fall for you after saying I wouldn’t.” You swallow. “I was going to tell you that I couldn’t stay with you, knowing you’d eventually find someone else and end things between us anyway.”

"Why did you think it had to end? Why did you assume that I wouldn't- That I didn't…" He trails off and watches you, lips parted slightly and words you fear under his tongue.

You lean back instinctively, trying to get away from the danger.

The best defense is a good offense, right?

"Are you really asking me that?" Your laugh is short and dripping mockery. "Come on, Ray. Have you forgotten how you described Pearson as dangerous and fascinating?” _You should stop._ “That your clothes are tailor-made?” _You need to shut up now._ “How much you're willing to spend on scotch?" _Stop talking, you’re hurting Ray._

The rest of your words die on your lips.

“What are you implying?” he asks coldly, even though his look is pained.

You won’t let him affect you. “That there was no reason for me to believe that you would want me.”

It’s such a bad lie that it amazes you that you managed to say it with a straight face. Ray only raises an eyebrow, probably thinking of the same things as you: the many times he traced patterns on your skin, how he joked with you as you cooked, the pleasure he got from watching you come undone under his touch.

“Do you truly believe that?” He speaks quietly; you can only hear him because there are no other sounds coming from inside the house.

You finally take your eyes away from him. Your tea’s going cold, and you take a sip just to feel that you aren’t letting it go to waste.

“I had to believe it,” you say, setting down the cup and moving your hand over it, feeling the steam against your palm. “You wouldn’t be able to hurt me if I didn’t fool myself into thinking that you’d never do it.”

You look at him again, and you can’t help but smile at the way he’s looking at you: eyes slightly narrowed, lips parted. There he is, trying to figure you out.

“This is going to sound self-centered,” he starts, watching you carefully, “but I don’t understand how this is any different from what we’ve already talked about.” He blinks rapidly. “How is this about you and not about me and my job?”

You shake your head. “You think I’m afraid of getting hurt because of your job.” You lick your lips. “It’s a possibility, and for a while I thought about all the people that could get hurt if I stayed with you… Then I remembered that nothing ever happens to people that aren’t directly involved.” You let out a quick laugh that makes Ray smile slightly. “I’ve had my share of gangster shit in my life, I know how it works.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“I also talked to the boys… Well, the boys talked to me. It turns out that they knew about us and they didn’t care.” You shrug. “It was a… an enlightening conversation.” You take a sip of tea. It’s too cold to be good now. “They believe we can deal with any gangster shit that you might bring to our lives.”

Ray raises an eyebrow. “Do you believe that? That you'll be safe?”

“I don’t know, Ray,” you admit. “But I know that it’s not the reason I left you.” You lean back in your chair, trying to look nonchalant, and curl your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “I’ve led an honest life for almost twenty years, but before that?” You smile ruefully. “You can get very far in your sort of life if you’re clever, and I _was_ clever.”

“What did you do?” Ray asks, something like dread in his tone.

“I had a bad idea.” You take a sip of tea, to remind yourself that the past is the past and it can’t touch you here. “I also had a very good plan. A few small risks and then I’d be leaving the country with all the money I could need and with the only person that mattered.” You laugh at yourself and look away from Ray’s serious expression. “It was going to be perfect, you know? The sort of life you can only imagine when you’re in your twenties and you still believe you have a chance of ruling the world.”

Ray breathes in sharply. You look at his face again, but nothing on it reveals what he’s thinking. He only watches you and waits.

“Everything went perfectly until it was time to escape. He knew where to meet me, and at what time.” You swallow and give Ray a meaningful look. “He didn’t show up.”

You remove your glasses and run a hand over your face, giving yourself a moment to gather strength.

“He sold you out,” Rays says quietly, with an undercurrent of anger that makes you look at him.

He's studying you, his jaw set and his eyes sad.

“I should have seen it coming,” you say, your smile a grimace.

Ray breathes in deeply and turns his face away from you. “When we first met, I put together a file on you.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “I saw your medical records. Twenty years ago...” He looks at you again. "Cuts. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. A concussion." His eyes narrow. "You’re lucky to be alive.” He grits his teeth and swallows.

"I survived because I needed to discover how they'd found me." You grimace. "My first thought wasn't betrayal, Ray, I believed they'd found…” Even after all this time, it hurts to think about him. “...my partner. That they’d found him and hurt him for answers." You smile, self-deprecating, and add, “He always said I was too naïve.”

Like on Friday, you’re struck by the reminder that Ray’s a dangerous man. You’ve barely finished speaking the last word and his expression has already shifted into one of tranquil fury, the sort of anger that burns down forests, salts the earth, and then buys the land to ensure nothing can ever settle down there.

It lasts a second, then he’s closing his eyes, breathing in deeply and standing up to grab a muffin from the long-forgotten basket in the middle of the table.

“What else did he say?” he asks, not looking at you as he inspects the basket. "What else did he do?"

“Nothing you’ve ever said or done.” The line of his shoulders loses some tension. “You’ve always gone out of your way to make me feel safe with you.” And you've never thanked him for it.

“I fucked that up on Friday,” he says, and takes a bite off a muffin.

“When we argued?”

He nods.

You almost laugh. “I still don’t know what was up with you that day, but I never felt threatened.”

He gives you a disbelieving look. “Not even when you saw the gun?”

“I found it more confusing than anything.” You find yourself relaxing. “You spent months trying to make me forget what you do for a living and suddenly you showed up hurt and armed.”

“I forgot you’d be here that day.” He turns fully towards you, resting his hip against the table. “Then I saw you and I remembered how odd you’d been.” He smiles, self-deprecating and resigned. “I thought I should push you away, give you a reason to end things between us immediately.” He takes another bite off the muffin. “I guess I only made things worse,” he says after swallowing, and then turns his attention towards the basket, blinking and twitching.

Before you can think about it, you say, “I’m not afraid of you,” bringing his attention back to yourself. He stares at you with wide eyes and that, mixed with how he does look younger without his beard, makes some part of you let go of the anxiousness and admit, “I’m afraid for you, but not of you. And I think that’s what scares me.” You push away your cup of tea, giving up on it. “I keep lowering my guard around you, and I left because I didn’t want to keep doing that.”

He puts the half-eaten muffin back in the basket and licks his lips. Without looking at you, he says, “I was awake when you left.” You close your eyes. “I felt you shift in the bed. I felt your hand on my neck and I- I wanted to ask you to stay.”

You open your eyes. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because you wanted to leave.”

And he’s always given you the choice to leave. You’ve always given each other the option of saying ‘no’.

“Ray,” you call softly, not caring how much weight the word carries as it tumbles out of your mouth, burdened with all your feelings for him.

He looks as afraid as you feel when he meets your eyes.

There’s so much to tell him, but in case you don't get to do it, you decide to get out the one thing that matters.

“I’m sorry.”

His mouth twists into a quick, sad smile. “What do you want me to do with that?”

You shrug. “It’s up to you.”

“What if you hate it?”

“I’ll let you know.”

You wonder if it's cruel to leave this to him, but you don't trust yourself to decide.

Ray studies you for a moment and takes a step in your direction.

"Stay there," he says as he walks towards you.

Without thinking, you turn the chair to face him fully when he reaches you.

He blinks rapidly and gets on his knees, his eyes fixed on your face, searching for something. You consider pushing the chair back, standing up and walking away, forgetting about all this before he decides what to do. You can live with 'maybe'. It’s safer for everyone.

Then he says your name and the world stops. He says it like he used to say Pearson's name, his voice curling around the word like he's embracing it, affection and care finding an outlet that won't be found in actions. He says it like he used to say Pearson's name when it was just the two of you talking about his feelings, the way of saying it that told you he trusted you with his longing, the way you knew he'd never say it to Pearson's face. He's using that tone that means he doesn't have any hopes, and yet.

"Yes?" you manage to say, the word suddenly foreign to you, and you're leaning towards him before you really know what you want.

He takes off his glasses and leaves them on the table, and then carefully puts a hand on your shoulder and the other one on your face and says, “Stop me if you don’t want this,” before slowly closing the distance between yourselves, giving you plenty of time to push him away.

You’re ashamed of how quickly you part your lips for him, how your hands reach for him to pull him closer.

The hand he has on your face moves to rest on the back of your neck and he kisses you like he’ll never get to do it again, passionate but careful, taking enough to let you know that he wants you, giving you just enough to make you want more. His other hand goes to your back, fingers curling and catching on the fabric of your clothes, and when he stops kissing you and buries his face in your neck you realize he's clinging.

You cling to him as well, hold him tightly to remind yourself that the reward for being brave enough to love Ray is Ray himself - beautiful and terrible, and now yours. The reward for your bravery is everything you want.

He trails his lips up your neck to press them to the spot behind your ear.

"Stay with me," he murmurs against your hair. "Please, stay with me."

"I don't want to leave," you admit, to him and to yourself. You never really wanted to.

He moves back to look at your face, searching. Slowly, you reach for his hand, the one that has the tie wrapped around it, and bring it to your lap.

"You'll have to give me a toothbrush and pyjamas," you say as you loosen the tie.

"Anything you need."

You nod and start caressing his palm, the spots where the tie left a mark.

"I need to sleep." From up close, his exhaustion is even more evident. "And so do you."

He brings a hand to your forehead, barely touching your skin with his fingertips.

"You'll have to help me with the sheets."

You laugh at that.

* * *

You don’t laugh when you see Ray’s room. The bed's unmade and some of his clothes are on a chair - you think they might be the ones he'd been wearing on Friday.

When you turn to ask him about it, he twitches.

"I haven't slept here since that night," he says, moving towards the bed and pulling down the sheets. "It smelled like you, and changing the sheets was like saying goodbye for good."

And here you thought he'd tried to remove every trace of you from his life.

"You still sent me all my things," you say, standing at the other side of the bed to help him.

He twitches again. "It wouldn't have been right to make you come for them."

"I never thought about them," you admit. "I was busy trying not to think about you."

"So was I." He fixes the pillows. "I've been sleeping in the guest room."

There's a thought about mutual ruin running through your mind. You gesture towards the clothes on the chair. "Did you ever find those buttons?"

"I didn’t look for them."

When he goes to get you a toothbrush and something for you to sleep in, you get on your knees and start searching. That’s what you're still doing when he comes back.

“I found one,” you say, holding up the button for him to see.

He stares at you, bemused, and approaches you slowly, setting the pyjamas on the bed.

"It could have waited until morning."

Ray extends a hand towards you to help you stand. You take it and turn it so you can press the button to his palm.

"No, it couldn't."

His hand closes around the button and he kneels in front of you.

"Is this another way of apologizing?"

"Yes."

"You don't have to…" He watches you seriously and reaches to touch your forehead, drawing a line with his fingertips. "I'm sorry too." He swallows. "For trying to push you away, for not answering all your questions…"

You nod. His hand trails down your face to your neck.

"You're forgiven." You don't like how that sounds. It’s too formal, too small, too simple.

Ray's smirk makes you think that he might be thinking something similar when he says, "So are you."

You take Ray's hand and hold it in your lap. "Will you tell me now why you went to play thug on Friday?"

He twitches and looks away from you for a second.

"To ensure all the affairs with the Russians were finally settled."

You brush his knuckles with your thumb. "Is that all?"

He shakes his head. "You know it isn't."

You want to know. You don't want him to hate you for asking.

"You don't have to tell me."

"You deserve to know, I think." He turns his hand to curl his fingers around yours. "You killed those men for me, and the Toddlers saved Michael. No matter how accidental half of that might have been, that made you all targets." He looks at you apologetically. "You wouldn't be safe until that entire affair was truly over."

"I don't need you to look after me." You look him in the eye as you say that. You might not be at the top of the food chain, but that doesn't make you weak. 

"I know." He twists his mouth. "But looking after people I care about is what I do." He smiles slightly. "We have that in common."

He loves you, remember? You don't know what he might do because of that.

You lick your lips.

"Did you already care about me when you had to take me to that dinner with Pearson?"

"I did, in a way." He squeezes your hand. "You saved my life, even though you didn't have to. I wanted to keep you safe."

"I didn't want you to die." You grimace. "I thought about it for a second - to let you die and be free of you and Pearson forever." You breathe in deeply and exhale slowly. "But it wasn't fair for you to die just like that. Ambushed."

He interlocks his fingers with yours. "Did I ever thank you for saving my life?"

"You made up for it by getting the boys out of trouble."

"It was the least I could do." He runs his thumb over your palm. It tickles a bit.

You hum in thought and study him.

"Ray?"

"Yes?"

You take a deep breath. "Why are you taking over Pearson's business?"

He exhales heavily and stops moving his thumb.

"To keep you safe."

You won’t tell him again that you don’t need him to do that. He knows that already.

"Do you want that job?"

His silence is enough of an answer.

"Do you remember what you told me once?" It's your turn to squeeze his hand. "That the people that love you don't want you to martyr yourself for them?"

For a moment, he watches you, not seeming to understand what you're saying. You can’t blame him for that: you might have talked about how you felt and you never took the words back, but haven’t actually repeated the words. Not by themselves. Not in a way that dragged them out into the light, making them undeniable and unmistakable.

So, you say them again, properly: "I love you."

He keeps watching you, maybe expecting you to run away again, but you withstand his gaze and let the words hang in the air, waiting for them to sink in.

Slowly, never taking his eyes away from yours, he says, "I love you too."

"I know." You look down at your joined hands. Without thinking, you bring them to your lips so you can kiss his knuckles. "Please don't do this for me."

When you look at Ray again, you find he’s the one that’s looking at your joined hands now.

Deliberately, you disentangle your fingers from his to be able to hold his hand in your own, once again bringing it to your lips. You kiss his fingertips and his palm because you can, because you’ve wanted to do it for days and now you’re finally allowed to, because it makes Ray watch you with something akin to wonder on his face.

His eyes meet yours and the wonder is replaced by doubt.

"What if I retire and something happens?"

You don’t want to think about it.

"We'll figure it out." You shift and get on your feet, never letting go of his hand. "But until something happens, if anything ever happens, we can live some very normal lives, with normal problems."

He stands up as well.

"A normal life. I’ll need a hobby…" He lets out a small laugh. "A friend told me to grow orchids.”

"You can grow orchids and catch me whenever I try to run away again." It doesn’t come out as light as you’d wanted it to.

He once again reaches to touch your face. You close your eyes and focus on his warmth.

“Is that what you want me to do? Catch you?”

“Yes.” You laugh despite the seriousness of the moment. “Tackle me if you have to.” You want Ray to keep you with him when you forget that he can be trusted, when fear takes over and makes you doubt. “I’ll help you relax in exchange.”

You look at him again, certain that you’ll find him smiling, and seeing that you were right makes you smile in turn.

“We can even start tomorrow,” you say, putting your hands on his waist and pulling him closer. “Let’s stay in.” He moves his hand to your shoulder. “Tell Pearson you’re sick and spend the day telling me about yourself.”

“What about you?” Ray asks, so close that his nose is brushing yours and you can’t see him well.

"Just in case, before coming here I asked Mauricio to cover for me tomorrow," you admit. “I’m free to bore you to death with my life story.”

“I'd like that,” he says, and he kisses you. Then he kisses you again. And again. And again.

Of course you kiss him back every time.

* * *

This is what your first day with Ray is like:

You wake up because you’re alone: in half consciousness you stretched your arm to feel Ray next to you and your hand only found a cold mattress.

You barely have time to wonder how long it'll take Ray to come back to bed before you hear his voice coming from outside the room. A quick look confirms that his phone isn’t on the nightstand.

"Something good, actually," he’s saying. After a moment, he continues, "If you must know, I have someone in my bed and I'm not kicking him out."

You suspect who he’s talking to. You close your eyes and wait for the call to end, your breathing deep and even.

“Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow.” A pause. “How’s Rosalind?” A long silence. “I’m glad. Send her my regards.” More silence. "I'll tell him. Goodbye, Michael."

You don’t hear as much as you sense Ray walking back into the room. You keep pretending to be asleep, wanting to live for a moment longer in the hope that yesterday forged.

The bed dips under Ray’s weight and the sheets rustle as he gets under them again.

“What time is it?” you ask him quietly, looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Early,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

His hair’s messy, sleep still clings to his eyelids, and when he smiles at you you reach over and trace his jawline with your fingertips.

“Is this my fault?” you say before you can think of a better way to formulate that question. “You shaved,” you add, to clarify.

“It’s not your fault,” Ray says, his smile disappearing. “But if what you’re asking is if it was about you, the answer is ‘yes’.”

You lie on your side and look at him questioningly. Your fingers go up to brush the shell of his ear.

“You weren’t coming back,” he says.

You cup his face.

“I wanted to feel like someone else.”

You caress his cheek with your thumb.

“Someone that never knew you. Someone that wouldn't miss you."

His sad smile tells you it hadn’t worked.

He knows you’re sorry; there’s no point in apologizing again.

You caress his face with an honest tenderness that scares you, leaves you frozen where you are, and all you can do is to keep touching him lightly, aware of how easily you could shatter each other through this fragile thing you’ve allowed to develop between yourselves.

Ray closes his eyes when you reach his mouth and parts his lips to catch the tip of your index finger, hold it gently between his teeth and brush it with his tongue - warm, wet, and soft.

You aren’t frozen anymore, but still you don’t move. Ray looks at you and lets go of you to lie down at your side. Your hand rests in the space between yourselves, and he covers it with his own.

“I called Michael,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You’re staying in today?”

“Yes.” He shifts closer.

You throw a leg over him, let him know that, yes, you want him next to you, you don’t want to go yet.

“He says we should go have dinner with him this weekend.” No matter how casually he says it, he can’t hide the way he watches you, wondering about your reaction.

“Am I going as your date?”

Ray laughs at that. It’s small and quick, but you see the tension leave his body with the sound.

“Yes.”

“Speaking of dates,” you say, shifting your hand to allow him to interlace his fingers with yours, “Mal proposed.”

"To you?" Ray says, raising an eyebrow, so comically serious that you snort.

You play along. "Not to me, no. To the Tambourine."

“About time.”

“They haven’t announced it yet and I don’t know if they have a date for the ceremony, but you’ll have to go with me.”

He blinks. You can practically hear him making an estimate of when the wedding might take place, how far in time it is, and so it doesn’t surprise you when he kisses you.

Unlike yesterday’s kisses, which were eager to prove something (that he loves you, that he’d missed you, that he’s afraid of you leaving again), this one’s deliberate. He sucks on your tongue and bites your lower lip, moves his hands to your chest, to your hips, to your thighs, touches you in all the ways he knows will leave you wanting, and you do the same in turn. You tug at his hair, grind against him, and leave him asking for more and promising everything in the same breath.

It feels desperate, both of you trying to do and say everything you didn’t dare to before, all the things that spoke of what you weren’t ready to acknowledge, in case the other one regrets all the implied promises from yesterday and decides to end this for good, making this a last opportunity. Neither of you is holding back anymore, treating each other like you’re precious because you can, because you want to, because you want him and he wants you, and that’s the only thing that matters.

All you want is for Ray to feel good - to smile, to laugh, to relax and forget himself under your touch. You want to kiss him like it's a promise, look at him without hiding anything, fall asleep with his arm on your back and wake up curled around him.

 _Not true_ , you admit to yourself as he scratches your neck with his teeth. You want him to make you feel good as well, you want to melt under his attention, to forget for a moment that anything exists beyond the points where he's touching you.

Mutual ruin. Mutual care.

Afterwards, you lie on your back and feel Ray drawing lines on your arm with his fingertips, the sort of gesture lovers are so fond of and that you purposefully ignored for months because you didn't want to leave.

* * *

You spend the rest of the day existing together.

Half the time, you wonder how it’s going to go wrong and find ways to silently apologize for all the things you messed up in the last seven months, while Ray keeps kissing you like he thinks you’ll leave again and finding ways to apologize for everything he did wrong.

The other half of the time, you spend it carefully figuring out this relationship.

He tells you about the brother that doesn’t speak to him and the mother that doesn’t know what his job is. He tells you how he accidentally made a friend. He complains about avocados.

You tell him about the time you were so drunk you got lost in your own street. You tell him how you met each of the boys. You tell him the name of the man you haven’t really allowed yourself to think about for years.

At some point, you have to go to your flat for clothes. You come back with the box, which you never emptied, and help Ray put everything back in their rightful places in his drawers.

Other things you do today: cooking, putting his bedroom in order, discussing your schedules and how you have to go back home tomorrow after work, but maybe he could meet you there?

Objectively speaking, it’s an unremarkable day.

* * *

This is the truth of your first day with Ray:

It's terrifying.

It's exhilarating.

It ends with you falling asleep in Ray's bed, with his arm on your back and a promise for the future in the lines he draws on your skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this fic, thank you for giving it a chance despite it being written in second person by someone that never got a hang of English prepositions. Thanks to everyone that left kudos, thanks to everyone that commented, thanks to everyone that said hi either on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Vetoing_Clocks) or [Tumblr](https://veto-power-over-fanworks.tumblr.com/). This is the first time I've written something this long, and it was the response it got that pushed me to keep writing it despite how much it kept growing - I thought the best way to thank you all for the support and interest was to give you something that justified all the time you must have spent reading this. I hope you've enjoyed the ride.
> 
> Now, the extra shout outs and thanks that you can skip if you want.
> 
> First, thanks to Mars once again. Has she seen the movie? No. Is she reading this fic? Also no. Did she bear with me on Discord while I complained when I was stuck, babbled about plot points, or threw random paragraphs at her that I thought were pretty but that I couldn't show to anyone because spoilers? Yes. Extra thanks because she cares about the Tambourine.
> 
> Second, a shout out to Auri for also caring about the Tambourine and for sending good vibes whenever I was all "Ugh. Writing."
> 
> Now, half joking, half seriously? Thanks to all the English teachers I've had, including the ones that taught me the numbers in first grade. This fic wouldn't exist if they hadn't been good at their jobs!
> 
> Fourth, I promised at some point that the coin I flipped back while I was writing chapter 1 would get a shout out, and here it is, because I'm very Committed to my dumb jokes: thank you, coin that was later spent to pay for the bus fare! Also, thanks to the sheet where I kept track of some, uh, balance things, and to the pieces of paper I used to decide which Toddler got to speak whenever they were all in a scene.
> 
> Fifth: hi, Sofia! I finished this!


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